grace & choice
by AStudyInTeal
Summary: Crowley wasn't always what she is today. Once she knew love. Once she was an angel. That was a long time fore she became Queen of Hell, before the Winchesters knew her, before the Apocalypse (take two)…there was just an angel and a demon together. Maybe, just maybe, there can be an angel and a demon together again. (Don't have to have read Good Omens before, but it'd help.)
1. Chapter 1

"_...'Cause I'll know my weakness, know my voice_  
_And I'll believe in __**grace and choice**_  
_And I know perhaps my heart is fast,_  
_But I'll be born without a mask._

_Like the city that nurtured my greed and my pride,_  
_I stretch my arms into the sky_  
_I cry Babel! Babel! Look at me now_  
_As the walls of my town, they come crumbling down…_"  
**- 'Babel', Mumford and Sons**

* * *

**GRACE & CHOICE;**

**Or, And the History Books Forgot About Us…**

A Narrative of Certain Events occurring throughout the last six-thousand years of history.

* * *

**DRAMATIS PERSONAE**

**Supernatural Beings of a Celestial Nature**

God (God)

Michael (An Archangel)

Gabriel (An Archangel in hiding as a Trickster)

Aziraphale (An Angel, and part-time rare book dealer)

Castiel (An Angel)

Metatron (An Angel and the Voice/Scribe of God)

**Supernatural Beings of a Demonic Nature**

Lucifer (A Fallen Angel; the Adversary)

Beelzebub (A Likewise Fallen Angel and Prince of Hell)

Crowley (An Angel who did not so much Fall  
as Saunter Vaguely Downwards)

Lilith (The First Demon)

Alastair (A Demon, and skilled torturer in Hell)

Hastur (A Fallen Angel)

Ligur (Likewise a Fallen Angel)

Meg (A Demon)

**Human Beings**

Adam Young (An Antichrist)

Dean Winchester (A Hunter, and the True Vessel of Michael)

Sam Winchester (A Hunter, and the True Vessel of Lucifer)

Robert "Bobby" Singer (A Hunter, and part-time mechanic)

Bela Talbot (A Thief)

Kevin Tran (A Prophet of the Lord, and Student)


	2. Chapter 2

**grace**

** [greys] noun**

1 . elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion, or action

2. a pleasing or attractive quality or endowment.

3. favor or goodwill.

4. a manifestation of favor, especially by a superior.

5. mercy; clemency; pardon.

6. Theology .

a. the freely given, unmerited favor and love of God.

b. a virtue or excellence of divine origin: the Christian graces.

7. moral strength: the grace to perform a duty.

8. a formal title used in addressing or mentioning a duke, duchess, or archbishop, and formerly also a sovereign.

* * *

Of all the angels, this one is her favorite.

Aziraphale, he's called. He guards the Eastern Gate but is a fair bit kinder than the others. Normally, that isn't something she would appreciate in a person, but it is pleasant because he would strike up a conversation rather that smite her on sight.

"Funny thing is," she murmurs as they watch the distant storm clouds, "I keep wondering whether the apple thing wasn't the right thing to do, as well. A demon can get into real trouble, doing the right things." She grins and nudges the angel. "Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? Funny if I did the good thing and you did the bad thing, eh?"

He doesn't find it amusing in the least, but it makes the demon recall the last time she had done a good thing.

* * *

She wasn't always a demon, you know. In fact, she had been a Principality**[1] **known as Sariel. **[2]**

That was a long one ago.

She barely remembers anything before her Fall. Bits and pieces, faces and names. But she lost most of those.

Instead, she remembers pain. She remembers free fall from heaven into hell—wings flapping helplessly behind her. She remembers terror and confusion and agony.

She does not remember what caused her Fall.

Sariel cared.

Crowley does not.

* * *

In the millennia that follow Eden and Mankind's removal therefrom, she and Aziraphale had a strange coincidence to run into each other quite often.** [3]**

Despite that he's The Enemy, she enjoys meeting up with him. Nothing like tempting an angel to brighten her day. Whatever may be said about Crowley, never let it be said that she did not enjoy a challenge. Humans, after all, so easily fall to temptation and corruption.

And to be honest, she thinks that a little temptation keeps Aziraphale focused on his goal. **[4]**

Either way, it's a miniature war after some time. He fights her after her first attempts: two-person battle with their angelic blades that neither ever win but lay waste to many a field. After eight of these battles (which had earn her a praise on each occasion for provoking an angel into fighting her), Aziraphale and she had crossed paths sometime in the third century and met under a brief agreed armistice. They'd come up with their Arrangement then. Neither were extremely eager to fight and so they settled into a peaceful agreement.

It goes better than expected. In fact, Crowley catches herself referring to the angel as "my old friend" in the fifth century.

She pauses, considers it, and shrugs to herself before continuing on with her business.

Considering an angel her friend isn't really as strange as it sounded. He is the only person she saw regularly and consistently for millennia and that left a mark.

Being friends, however, didn't mean she stops trying to tempt him.

But it did mean that he begins his attempts to tempt her into being good. Neither make much progress, but Crowley is surprised to find she doesn't really mind.

* * *

They call her The Serpent of Eden. More commonly, they refer to her as The Temptress.

It's flattering.

The young demons—twisted human souls—are always a bit in awe of her and stumble over themselves to get out of her way or help her if she asks. **[5]**

They fear and respect the Fallen Angel who brought about Original Sin.

But really, it's all terribly funny to Crowley. After the incident with Eve, she so rarely really sets out to tempt anyone with full effort. **[6]**

But hey, the title is useful. She gets random commendations whenever someone's been tempted into sin and no one else assumes credit. Which keeps the bosses off her back when she's slacking.

* * *

Aziraphale she finds to be more enjoyable company as time wears on.

He was so wary of her for so long, it was amusing in many ways. But he always was squeamish when she mentioned her plots and schemes. It wouldn't do for him to forget, which he strangely seemed to much of the time.

At one point, they meet up in the angel's current residence and are thoroughly enjoying a lovely bottle of vintage and the drunkenness that it brings.

"You don' like bein' reminded tha Imma demon, Zira," she commented at one point. "Why's that?"

"Because," he slurs, equally drunk, "It makes me think you're a friend for manip-manipulationing me…"

It's a sobering thought and Crowley regretfully clears the alcohol from her body.

"Aziraphale…" she murmurs, slightly wounded. "I'd never…I'm not…I'm your friend because I like you and I enjoy your company, not to mention you're one of the few beings I see regularly. Sure, I'll have a go at you sometimes and tease, but…never to hurt you."

During her speech, he had sobered up as well and regarded her sadly.

"Crowley…you're a demon, as you keep reminding me. You're a demon, not an angel like me."

Her cheeks flare red. "That doesn't make you better than me, Aziraphale. I still have my wings and my powers. I'm your equal, your counterpart, the other side of the same coin."

His face clouds with confusion. "But you don't…feel like we—"

She sits forward suddenly, eyes narrowing furiously.

"Yes, I'm a demon, a fallen angel, thank you. I still have emotions, contrary to what you think. I still feel joy and heartache and friendship and love and hate and anger and sorrow—just like you."

Aziraphale is completely taken aback.

"I—Crowley, you—my dear," he murmurs and catches her slender hand in both of his, waiting for her to meet his earnest gaze. "My dear, I didn't know. You are always so flippant about everything and I thought…well, it doesn't matter what I thought, I was wrong. And I am terribly sorry. I have misjudged you, and I'm incredibly sorry to have done that to my dearest friend and counterpart."

She nods slowly, swallowing, and clears her throat. "Alright, yes, glad that's settled. I'm your friend and you're mine, jokes aside. Now enough of these mushy sentiments. You have another bottle, don't you?"

He laughs and it rings like a bell. Something in her stomach settles and she smirks as he refills their glasses.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

**[1] – In the celestial hierarchy of angel kind, Principalities rank just below the archangels, above the seraphim.**  
**[2] – Sariel is often (incorrectly) described by various writers and religious texts as an angel of death, an angel of healing, and occasionally as an archangel (to her amusement). She has, correctly, also been listed as one of the Fallen Angels.**  
**[3] - Sometimes, they even ran into each other multiple times within the same century, which was really saying something.**  
**[4] – That isn't why she does it. She does it for the challenge—most certainly not to help him (and she would happily strap anyone who suggested otherwise to a rack in Hell).**  
**[5] - She doesn't.**  
**[6] - It's debatable how much effort she has put forth, really. Even with Eve, her greatest triumph, that only happened by accident after those downstairs told her to go up and stir some trouble. That was more trouble than she ever intended.**


	3. Chapter 3

Humans prove themselves as remarkable. Their speed of genius and invention impresses even Crowley.

As their world grows by the day, the Temptress leaves her nomadic life to around the world and decides she quite likes Europe. It's always got such interesting politics, which she loves getting involved in. Unfortunately, that doesn't always work out in her favor.

Circumstances lead her to sending a missive to Aziraphale and he heeds her urgent call quickly, though confused.

"Crowley, what in the world is wrong?" he asks as she shuffles him into her villa. He finds her with a new face and a soft, shapely body on display under the careful folds of her stola. Her skin is sunkissed and her hair like a raven's wing, eyes like the ocean.

"Play along, angel, and it's Civia," she murmurs urgently into his ear, before straightening his toga and raising her voice to call, "Gentlemen, my lovely husband Marcus has returned home!"

Much later that night, when they are again alone, Aziraphale turns to her in exhausted confusion. "Honestly, my dear…what…?"

She rubs her forehead. "Let me get some wine and I'll happily explain…" Crowley replies and, after doing such, sighs.

"Was that actually Julius Caesar, my dear?"

She gives a low, throaty laugh. "Yes, it was. I'm…well, I won't bother you with details. I've worked my way into the depths of Roman politics, as you may have guessed by the politicians present for dinner. However, Caesar unfortunately took a shine to me and wouldn't be dissuaded. I might have told him I was married to a historian who was away on a voyage and only just returned. Hence your presence."

Well that explained the…_enthusiastic _kiss she'd pulled him into once they approached her guests.

He pauses. "So you begged a favor of me so you could avoid being Caesar's mistress?"

Refilling her wine glass, she levels him with a glare. "What? He's already eating from the palm of my hand, I don't need to warm his bed to get what I want. A waste of my time and effort."

He chuckles. It's been quite some time since he's seen her. "I do believe I've missed you and your customary snark, my dear."

Crowley simply rolls her eyes. "Don't get all sappy on me, Zira. Besides, you're a crappy kisser anyways." She laughs and grins at him so cheerfully he can't bring himself to be offended.

* * *

Come the Ides of March, Caesar has been stabbed by Brutus at Crowley's nudging and she's already left Rome.

Being Hell's representative on Earth since the beginning offers her advantages. One is that she does not, unlike all other demons and Fallen Angels, require a vessel. Her body is her own and she has complete control of it. There is no filter between her and emotions or reactions. She can also change her appearance freely.

This is a useful skill for the Temptress. She could become whatever her mark wanted or desired—male or female, light or dark, young or old. It's all fluid for her.

Another valuable talent she has is masking her status as one of the Fallen—can appear even to archangels as nothing but another harmless human. Perhaps that is the most enjoyable aspect.

* * *

In regards to Aziraphale, she lays off of the temptations for nearly a century, keeping to light-hearted teasing and jokes instead.

Then she stumbles upon him in a pub one evening while disguising herself and she can't resist the temptation of tempting him. She, at the moment, looks like a lithe, fair woman in her late twenties with shining golden curls and sinfully green eyes. It's too easy to walk by the wrong group of rowdy, drunken men and nudge them into lust. They approach her, leering, and don't take her refusal well.

And it is no surprise that the angel, sitting at the far end of the pub, would come to the rescue of a helpless young woman.

"Please," she asks of her rescuer, "Allow me to drink with you, sir."

Aziraphale smiles a gentle smile that he somehow retained despite however he changed his appearance. "If you wish, madam."

They drink and drink. One glass of mead becomes two then six. Finally when the angel is tipsy, Crowley expels the alcohol from her system, leaving her sharp mind clearer than glass. Aziraphale neither notices nor thinks to do the same.

He's laughing because of a joke she slurs out**[1]** when she slides from her chair into his lap and covers his lips with hers.

Because Aziraphale was mid-laugh, her tongue tangles quickly with his as she settles in his lap, hands grasping his shoulders and pinning him there. It's easy to press her body against his: breasts to his chest, hips over his.

The angel struggles against her, caught thoroughly off guard. His arms nearly flail through the air; he wants to shove her away but does not want to touch her.

Crowley leans into the kiss, relishing her first kiss with an angel. He struggles but he isn't frozen and so it's a strange kiss, though not a bad one. His lips are warm and soft as they fumble against hers. She notes the taste: past the liquor, she tastes something like ozone and tea.

He had stilled under her touch, not knowing what to do—to shove her away or wait for her to stop—but she could feel in his posture the moment he realizes she isn't planning on stopping anytime soon and so puts a hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her away from him.

As she stares at his handsome face—mid twenties, bronze-haired, with gentle features, blue eyes, and currently swollen, bruised lips—, his eyes roved over her face. Comprehension flows through him as the alcohol evaporates from his bloodstream.

"Crowley," he said quietly, as if to chastise her. But there's no real bite to it—no anger, just exasperation and perhaps embarrassment.

The demon's smile takes a lascivious edge. "Hello, angel," she greets and taps his nose. "Something you like, hm?"

Angels don't blush, but if they could, Aziraphale would be.

"I'm afraid I need to take my leave," he replies smoothly, motioning for her to return to her own seat.

She pouts but stands from his lap. "Why must you reject me so?" she sighs in melodrama. "Why do you delight to torture me?"

The angel does not reply. He merely nods goodbye and departs.

With a sigh, Crowley goes to retrieve for alcohol for herself and resolves to get completely drunk all over again.

* * *

Soon, the fallen angel settles down in London, where history begins to unfold quickly. She's always liked large cities and this area suits her.

Twelve years after she settles there, she finds that Aziraphale has set up a bookshop there as his permanent residence.

Immediately, she pays him a visit, by way of strolling into the shop like she owns the place, wearing a killer dress, going straight to him at the counter, and hopping up on said counter to press a kiss to his cheek.**[2]**

He sighs because he knows without asking. "Hello, Crowley. Can I help you with anything?" His eyes remain resolutely on her face but she knows he is looking at other parts of her anatomy through his peripheral vision, even if it's subconscious. So she leans over and ruffles his now-slightly ginger hair, her breasts right in front of him and nearly spilling from the neckline of her dress as she does so. She's rewarded with an actual flush that steals through his cheeks, to her delight and pride.

"I just had to welcome you to the neighborhood, my dear angel," she replies innocently. "It has been so very dull recently. I'm delighted to see you here!"

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "And I'm relieved to find you here. It's been some time, hasn't it?"

Her smile takes a sharp, bitter edge. "Yes, two hundred and six years."

Aziraphale's smile falters momentarily but he nods. "Since the tavern, yes. That sounds right."

She snorts. "And three months and four days, to be precise."

"...I didn't mean to imply that you were incorrect or forgetful," he apologises to her, placating. "I was trying to be...delicate."

Something bitter twists her gut and Crowley laughs darkly. "Oh, angel. I think you started to forget who I am."

And he has. The fact that he considers her a friend is evidence enough of that.

He looked to her with started blue eyes. "I know who you are, my dear…" he pauses and grins. "Though not biblicallyof course. I know you nevertheless. You are called Crowley but you were not always as you are now. You are quite a hedonist and have fine taste as such. You enjoy riding horses but dislike carriages because you find the ride tedious. You like silk and velvet clothing for the texture. You prefer blue over black or red but persist with items of those colors regardless. Vintage wine and whisky are your favorite to drink and you abhor beer and ale. You like humans, too, though you'll never admit it." He shakes his head fondly. "I know you, after these millennia, Crowley."

Her amber yellow eyes bores into him fiercely. "No," she whispers. "You forget that I am a demon—one of the Fallen. You forget that I left Heaven and left your brothers and sisters who were once my own too. You forget that I am the Temptress, the Serpent of Eden, the creator of Original Sin. You may know me, but you use that to delude yourself into forgetting _what _I am."

Aziraphale shakes his head, which ruffles his curls boyishly. "Our choices define us, not what we were born or created as," he replies as he lays a hand on her shoulder softly. The momentary hurt is gone, replaced instead by gentle determination.

The demon snorts. "You are starting to sound like a human, Aziraphale," she warns, "With your talk of free will. But we aren't human. We don'thave free will."

Despite her sharp tone and cold words, her friend offers a small grin. "You can't live amongst humanity for nearly six thousand years without learning a thing or two."

Crowley says nothing more on the subject, and Aziraphale lets the issue slide. "What have you been up to in the time since our last parting of ways?"

The demon raises a delicate brow. "Are you sure you want the details, Zira?"

"Oh, you know what I mean, my dear," he chuckles and some of the tension bleeds out of her spine at the endearment.

She shrugs elegantly. "I settled here about twelve years ago. I quite like London, wonderfully miserable weather and such interesting events. Not much to it. The culture is…agreeable, I suppose. It keeps improving, I have high expectations. Give it a few centuries."

He chuckled. "Yes, the people of London are quite lovely, I think."

"Not what I meant, angel," she sighs, smiling slightly despite herself.

"No, but it's what you're thinking," he smiles.

And if she doesn't deny it, he doesn't point it out.

Instead, she waves her hand briskly and makes a bottle of scotch appear in his hands. "A welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift, angel," she tells him as she dismounts from the counter.

"Wait," Aziraphale exclaims when she turns to the door. "Where're you off to?"

She turns to glance at him, eyebrows climbing her forehead. "Appointments, meetings, et cetera. I do have a job, you know."

For a moment, the angel almost looks disappointed, shoulders lowering slightly. "Oh," he murmurs softly. "Then—who'm I supposed to share this with?"

He motions to the bottle, not having to voice the invitation.

A small smile curls her red lips. "Well, I suppose I can stay for a brief time, I suppose."

* * *

**Footnotes**

**[1] The joke involves a tavern, a farmer, and the devil, which makes the joke even funnier to the angel.**  
**[2] If her lips brush across his lips on the way, it's an accident.**


	4. Chapter 4

Time passes and a routine forms.

Aziraphale's bookshop continues, though he goes to extreme lengths to prevent customers from leaving with any of his precious books. Said extreme lengths are often a source of amusement for the demon, when she isn't roped into participating in them. He continues on, content with his collection of books. Aesthetically, he barely changes either. The briefly-ginger hair soon returns to his usual blond curls and he doesn't bother change his looks.

As for Crowley, she changes her appearance nearly every day to suit whomever was the focus of any of her plots. But, at the end of the day, she returns to a normal form when she goes to see Aziraphale. It is an appearance she adopted long ago and frequently catches herself going back to. Eventually, it becomes her default, as her seductions peters off and she acts as a succubus less frequently.

Though the Temptress begins to slowly stop seducing people for her plans, that does not mean her aesthetic standards waver. She is a vain creature at heart, and she takes pride in it whenever a man runs into a closed door or trips on a curb while he is distracted by the sight of her. She enjoys the stares she receives. (And it's not because she's tempting people into sinful lust.)

Her hair is long, dark, and curly; her eyes are warm amber and often hidden behind sunglasses; her skin is a slight olive tone and unblemished; her face is all angles and elegance; her figure is curvaceous and tall.

And as times changed, so too does her style and manner of dress, though it's always similar: a bold blood red or deep black dress that clung to every line and curve of her body. Though it is nothing particularly revealing, it draws the eye like a moth to a flame.

So you might find it understandable why she chooses such an appearance: it inspires lust in many men, envy in more than a few women, and (more frequently than he admits to or is aware of) distraction in a particular angel.

* * *

And so both parties of the Arrangement remain in London and in frequent contact. Whenever he isn't convincing sinners to repent or rewarding good deeds, Aziraphale runs his bookshop, collects some fine wines to share with his friend, and tries to bring out the good in the demon. After a long day of temptation, manipulation, and the occasional seduction**[1]**. Crowley enjoys bothering the angel until he closes shop and acquiesces to a night of drinking or dinner at the Ritz.

It's simple and easy and enjoyable.

Until the bloody Antichrist happens.

* * *

To be fair, in hindsight, Adam wasn't really to blame but at the time she hates him for what he heralds.

The Antichrist means the End of Times is near. The Antichrist means Horsemen and Armageddon and the Adversary. The Antichrist means a looming battle between "good" and "evil"—between the two sides that Crowley and Aziraphale are divided between.

They sit in St. James Park (and later Zira's bookshop) and discuss it all—ineffable plans of the diabolic and divine variety—and her throat is tight with urgency as they talk.

She pleads her case with notes about Heaven's taste, about music and restaurants, about this quaint human world they have adapted to and come to love.

_Please_, she thinks, _Agree with me. For once in your existence, pick me over Heaven, pick me._

Of course, Crowley has her pride and she would never say that aloud or mention that in the argument. She knows how their friendship works, knows his nature. Aziraphale would listen to teasing bits about creature comforts of the human world; were she to bring herself into this temptation (for that is what it is), he would end it all together.

Zira was never tempted by her.**[2]**

By her words, sometimes; by her arguments, occasionally. By _her_? That was absurd to think and to test it would be an affront to him

Her words work. Her petty temptations of humans' modern world and creature comforts and books and wine and restaurants and antique shops and crosswords—they work. She all but begs and pleads, and she's fully prepared to do it, if only ever for Zira, but she doesn't have to.

The angel meets his eyes, nods firmly, and simply says, "Alright."

Crowley's eyes widen. "Truly? You're with me?"

He smiles warmly. "That's what I said, my dear. From here on out, it's us against Heaven and Hell, no matter what comes after us for it."

A lot comes after them.

But in the end, it's them between a handful of humans, including the Antichrist, and the Adversary and what seems to be the coming End.

"You don't mean we should actually try and stop _Him_?" she exclaims.

"What have you got to lose?" Aziraphale asks calmly. And it makes her stop. What _does_ she have to lose? Not much, that's for certain. Nothing that wasn't already taken from her. Nothing else could be done to her, really. The only thing she had left to lose…is the angel before her. And he'd risk himself anyways, with or without her.

Well. He certainly wasn't going to do anything so foolish without her. Not while she had a say.

She hadn't changed clothes in all the time of this madness. She's still in an elegant dark blue dress**[3]** and heels. _Hell on high heels_, she thinks with a smirk and decides if she's going to die (actually, truly _die_) fighting the apocalypse, she's going to look _damn_ good while doing it.

"I'd like to say," Zira says to her quietly, as though they are enjoying a quiet evening in his bookshop not the soon-to-be-ground-zero of the apocalypse, "if we don't get out of this, that…I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."

"That's right, make my day," she mutters bitterly, to hide the warmth in her breast.

He smiles anyway and offers his hand. "Nice knowing you."

Something catches in her throat as she grasps it tightly, threading her fingers through his. "Here's to the next time and…Aziraphale?"

"Hm?"

Crowley hesitates, words fighting on her tongue to escape, before she simply replies, "Just…just remember that I'll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking."

Just like in all the years past, whenever she said something they both secretly knew meant more than it seemed, he smiles gently, that pure angelic smile of joy that warmed her (not quite so) black heart.

They both nod to each other, communicating without words.

The backs of Aziraphale's jacket and Crowley's dress split as their wings sprout and grow, fully manifested for what was surely far too long. Zira's are pure downy white, as if they were made of clouds, of course. The Fallen angel's wings are like shadows made corporeal, black as obsidian rock, though lighter grey down lighten the feathers near the joints, if you look closely. The blond man's wings are slightly tousled, as if he had not groomed them in a bit too long, but the demon's were neat and pristine.**[4]**

And if Crowley has to choose a way to go…this is possibly the best way she could have imagined. She's got Aziraphale at her side, hand in hers. She's got her wings loose and free, with a weapon in hand—ready to fly and fight. To fight for her dear angel and for the world they had so long called their home.

But it isn't the end at all. Adam, of course, prevents it.

Crowley's tire iron-wielding arm falls to her side in shock. "Just…just like that…?" she murmurs in disbelief.

Her hand, which is still in her companion's grasp, is squeezed gently. "Just like that," Aziraphale replies softly, in awe. "It's over."

"I guess our presence wasn't really required all too much, then," she mutters wryly. "So much for fighting the Powers That Be and all that rubbish."

Aziraphale smiles slightly. "You needn't have listened to me at all, nor come with me."

It startles a laugh from her lips, a laugh more genuine than any he had heard in years from her. "Oh, angel," she sighs, shaking her head. "I'd have come anyways. There wasn't much of a question about it."

He stares at her and something like awe settles on his face. When he remains in that state for a few moments, Crowley turns to lay a hand on his shoulder. "Angel?"

Rather than speak, his response is to lean close and—quickly, so quickly she nearly thought she imagined it—presses his lips to her cheek in simple gratitude and companionship. It's brief and chaste and the most innocent kiss she's ever received, but it causes a bright flush to rise to her cheeks and her mouth to go dry. (_No_, she tells herself, _Don't you dare. Don't you dare even hope. He's grateful and happy, that's it._)

"I—Zira?" she stutters. "Angel—I don't—how do I respond to that?" she murmurs, mostly to herself.

Aziraphale chuckles fondly. "I haven't ever seen you so flustered, my dear."

She stares at him and then shakes herself to focus, calming the storm of confusion raging in her mind. "Later," she decides quietly. "After we make sure this mess is cleaned up."

Crowley does not know if she's looking forward to that conversation or dreading it.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

**[1] - She doesn't prefer that last one, though. It's hard work, tiresome, and sometimes difficult, but she generally keeps her attractive form and that makes things easier. In the end, while it may be temporarily pleasant, her usual partners are not at all her type. And no, she wouldn't say she had a type, much less give any hints about who might have been her type.** **[2] - "But you're part of it," he'd slurred. "You tempt people. You're…you're good at it!" Not to the person that meant most, apparently. "…Don't you try to tempt me. I know you, you old serpent," he scolds her—only for mentioning theatres and films. She ignores the sting of it and continues.** **[3] - Rare did she stray from a colour palette of black or crimson, though she indeed preferred blue. She always thought that blue wasn't very demonic and so stuck with the more appropriate black and red. But it always brings a small smile of pride to Aziraphale's face when he sees her in another color.** **[4] - She was unashamedly vain about them, too, and kept them neat as possible, while the angel was somewhat absentminded about the state of his.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Specific Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content.**

* * *

When they finally return to the bookshop (which Adam has graciously fixed), Crowley collapses onto the couch and kicks off her heels. She promptly makes a large glass of _very_ old and _very_ fine whisky and takes a long drink.

Only then does the tension begin to melt from her body.

"So, now that we know the world isn't ending and everything is settled and back to normal, do you want to explain what that was back there?"

The angel, now sans his coat, settles at the opposite end of the couch. "A kiss, my dear. A mannerism generally used to convey affection or similar emotions. A concept you introduced me to some centuries ago."

She nearly drops the whisky. "Introduced—" She stops to let out an impressive stream of curses in a multitude of forgotten ancient tongues. Aziraphale doesn't even tut at her for it. "Sometimes, angel," Crowley eventually replies, "I underestimate your innocence. Or forget it…no matter. Not the subject of this conversation. _Why_ did you do that, Aziraphale?"

The angel sobers at the use of his full name, so rarely heard from her lips nowadays. "I kissed you because I care about you, Crowley. And then seemed as good a time as any."

Her chest tightens just as her heart swells, a mixture of joy and fear filling her. "You shouldn't," she responds quietly, eyes on the liquor in her hands. "You shouldn't have—have kissed me or care for me. We've ignored that fact for so long now…toed the line in the sand, flirted with disaster."

"I hardly think that's a concern at the moment, dear."

Her lips thinned. "I am not referring to the apocalypssse!" she hisses sharply. "You could _Fall_, Aziraphale. You might Fall because of this—"

"My dearest Crowley, calm yourself," the blond angel murmurs, clasping her hands in his. "I won't Fall because of my association with you. Whether you mean be simply being too close, that's impossible; if you mean by the Powers That Be discovering it, well, I think our little display right in front of them all would be more important than this." He smiles again, that genteel gesture of fondness that she's come to know so well. "And even if it was, it would be worth it."

Her head shoots up; the glass shatters on the floor. "_Don't sssay that!_" she exclaims vehemently, urgently. "Don't even think about it!"

It startles him. "Crowley…was Falling that bad?"

Her eyes clench shut—

_—falling, falling so far, from Heaven to the pits of Hell—pain tearing through her, making her writhe as she fell—pain so intense, so fiery. Holy oil-fueled fire was nothing compared to it, no earthly torment could ever compare to such a pain—pain so intense, it ravaged her mind and made her lose so much of her life beforehand, and she could barely hold on to her name, much less her dearest friend—it was Falling, it was plummeting through the air and into the brimstone-filled pit—nothing could ever compare—_

—and the thought of Aziraphale experiencing it—of him knowing that pain and torture—

—of pure, kind Aziraphale forced to serve Hell—of him being at the command of the monsters she called bosses—of him being cut off from all that was good in the world to assist evil and sin—

"Crowley?" he murmurs, laying a soft palm on her clenched fists. She seizes it, meets his eyes fiercely.

"_Never_ think such a thing, Aziraphale. Stop right there and turn back. I forbid it. Nothing about that would _ever_ be worth Falling—worth that pain—worth _any of it_. Being friends with me, allies with me…you can't…I am not worth that price, that pain—" She stops, trembling in fury too much to continue. She forces herself to breath as she clenches her eyes shut and pulls away from the angel.

But Aziraphale pulls her right back and clasps her pale face between his gentle hands. When she meets his eyes, he finally speaks.

"I don't know how I ever thought there _wasn't_ good in you," Zira tells her and smiles before hugging her close

She's still shaking—from their supposed doom, the unexpected result, the peck on her cheek, to his words and she doesn't know what else—and she trembles against his chest as she hugs him too. "You bastard," she mutters into his tartan sweater vest and closes her eyes, allowing herself one sweet moment of delusion before pulling away, out of his arms.

He chuckles in amusement.

"Don't ever talk about Falling for me of all damned things." She intends for the words to be a stern command, but it escapes as something a bit closer to a plea.

The angel merely replies, "If the issue ever comes up, I will endeavor to avoid Falling, I swear."

It's the most she can get him to agree to, but at least it's something.

* * *

Life…well. Life _goes on_.

Crowley doesn't quite know what to do with herself. Between her and Aziraphale, something…something is different. Something's shifted, unspoken, unacknowledged.

She does not like it.

Despite this, having no orders from downstairs, she spends most of her time with him.

She's bored one day and bothering the angel, trying to make things feel like they had before, not this strange, uneasy tension. It only serves it irritate Aziraphale until he's had enough and sits down tiredly.

"What do you want, Crowley?" He finally sighs. "Why're you here with me when you should probably be seducing a politician or corrupting a banker? Or thwarting my miracles rather than watching and bothering me later?"

For a single moment, hurt flashes across her face but it's gone before Aziraphale can really think about it.

"I am tired, Angel. So tired," she murmurs and shakes her head. "I _like _life here on Earth. For all their respective vices and virtues, I…I like humans. I just...I don't like being Hell's attack dog, fighting you tooth and nail on command. It is annoying, it is unproductive, it is pointless, it is a waste of time, energy, and resources—for _both _of us."

"And we could accomplish so much more together," he continues on, jokingly, with a small quirk of his lips.

The demon, for once, is unsure how much of it truly is a joke, how much a genuine guess at her thoughts.

She shakes her head, giving up on deciphering it. "No, it's not even for the sake of business that I'm talking of this. It's just…" she hesitates. "Lonely. This life on Earth is lonely. You are the only face I see consistently. The only face I _like _to see consistently, anyways. You're good company, good conversation—and you have excellent taste, well, except the tartan. I don't...I don't _like _being forced to attempt to foil your plans or try to kill you, and you've made it _quite _clear about my seductions. I'm so tired of it. I can't do it anymore. I"m not going to bother try. You've been my enemy for millennia but…you've become a friend, you know that. I just can't do it anymore. Not even the stupid half-hearted attempts that I've been doing the past two centuries. I don't care about it anymore. Why bother? I just want to spend time with my friend now."

The angel nods slowly. "Yes...I suppose we do have an unexpected friendship. I've come to enjoy it, and...I understand, in some ways."

Relief washes over her features like a wave crashing onto the sand. "Thank you."

He smiles, but hums in thought. "Though I am surprised to hear you disliked having to, erm, use your wiles on me."

Her smile fades and tightens as she forces it to stay. "I didn't mind, really. Even though I faced rejection every time. I just... Can't hear it any longer," she finishes softly, looking over his shoulder at the dust motes in the sunlight from the window, if only to avoid his eyes.

His hand, soft and gentle, curls around hers. "My dear…"

The demon snatches her hand away immediately, her usual posture returning when she heard the pity in his voice.

"Don't, don't you dare pity me, Aziraphale!" She snaps, pride wounded and heart hurt.

His eyes cloud in soft guilt. "Crowley, just think—what's one target's rejection if they're the only one to do so. What does it matter? So many others don't, really—"

She stands and distances herself, throwing on a jacket quickly. "Did you ever think—did you ever consider…" she trails off and groans in frustration. "Oh, what's the point?" She turns to storm out but he catches her arm, pulling her back to face him.

"Did I ever consider what, Crowley?" He asks softly.

The demon grinds her teeth together before blowing out the air she'd been holding in. _Fuck it_, she thinks. She has to say it, finally, if only to get it out. She'll leave then, probably won't be welcomed back but…she has to.

After so many millennia of leaving it unacknowledged, of hiding it from him, and now this strange strain between them…she finally allows the truth to slip from her lips.

"How can you say it doesn't matter when you were the only one that mattered?" she whispers. "Did you ever consider that maybe you weren't just a target? That I never got orders to seduce you—well, at least, not since the very beginning? That I—that I am so terrible at expressing affection that just maybe I was trying to show it in the only way I know how?"

Awe fills his face and he is beautiful. Before she can turn to run, he pulls her into his arms for an embrace and none such before had ever felt so intimate and warm.

"My dearest Crowley," Aziraphale murmurs into her dark curls. "Surely you do not feel this way…"

She looks away guiltily. "I…What difference does it make? I'm still a demon. I can't—that is, we don't—"

"Why of course you can!" He exclaims, almost offended, and pulls away to look her in the eyes. "My dear, when an angel Falls, they are the same at heart. Falling is not inherently equivalent to becoming evil. That is a choice. Your choice which you made halfheartedly. Why—you're no more evil than young Adam. You taught me that, remember? Ages ago, I was too prejudiced to see it, or perhaps too afraid to believe it. I don't know how, though, in retrospect, I didn't see it. Ever since that day, you've done nothing but demonstrate that fact to me!"

The dark-haired woman glanced at him with tender eyes and rueful lips. "Were it not for you, Zira, I would have died millennia ago. As much as I enjoy this life upon earth, if I did not have your company…I would lose Faith or would have ripped out my Grace to become human."

"Surely not!" he interjects in abject terror and horror, pulling her closer in concern.

"I considered it," Crowley admits. "In the ninth century. Life was just…tedious monotony and I was losing Faith. I hadn't, but I was about to. I was so very tempted to become mortal and live out my days as such, but you…The thought of you prevented me. The thought of leaving you alone on this Earth. You didn't deserve that," she whispers, again avoiding his gaze. "And then I realized that what little Faith I had left…it was built upon my belief in you. That you'd always be here. That you'd always guard humanity and stop my forced schemes from reaching fruition. That you would be you."

His eyes water as he searches her face. "I hadn't…Oh Crowley… I didn't dare consider it, for fear of breaking my own heart."

His words leave her shattered in the implication and she clings to him—arms tight about him, fingers curling into his shirt, face pressed into his neck.

It feels like finally coming home.

* * *

"Come, let's get dinner, my dear," he says when they finally, reluctantly part.

"The Ritz?" She proposes, composing herself and returning to her usual demeanor, if somewhat softer.

"Of course, just allow me to lock up the shop before we go," he murmurs, smiling cheerfully, and goes to the back of the shop.

When he returns, he finds Crowley has changed clothes (not that it was difficult for a demon). Her sensual, clinging red dress has been swapped for an elegant if simple dark blue ensemble. It is less provocative, less revealing than that previous, but she is no less beautiful.

The angel offers Crowley his arm and, when she accepts it, presses a soft kiss to her cheek. "You're lovely, Crowley. But you needn't change for me."

She tosses her head back and laughs. "Zira, I changed because I wanted to, not because it was required of me. Besides, you're right, I do favor this shade and I haven't worn it much lately…and thank you for the compliment, angel."

At the Ritz, their usual waitress (a young university student who always finds them an excellent table and ensures excellent service to two of her favorite customers) sees how close they are standing and recognizes the glances between them, and so escorts them to a secluded booth in a corner, winking at Crowley behind Aziraphale's back.

Crowley is left to wonder how obvious they are.

Their meal progresses as it normally does with their usual discussion. The only difference is unspoken for most of their dinner—it's the hand Aziraphale lays over hers, the way their feet mingle under the table, how he blushes with pleasure as she laughs at a joke of his, the softer smile she offers him rather than her usual smirk.

It's subtle and simple, the shift between them, but it sings between them like a symphony and it's the happiest they've been in ages.

* * *

As the night wears on, they wine, dine, and make merry, laughing and having a wonderful time until they eventually leave the Ritz, late into the night.

"My place, for a change?" she suggests lightly.

"If you'd like," the angels agrees with a smile, at ease. She nods and ushers him to the Bentley.

He's never been to her home, she realizes as she unlocks the door and welcomes him inside. "It's lovely," he says, as he removes his coat and places it on a coat rack.

"Thank you," the demon smiles.

Her home is spacious and clean, so unlike Zira's cramped, messy flat, and is filled with modern, sleek furniture, though the throw blankets and pillows soften the look. Lamps and a fireplace fill the living room with warm, intimate lighting.

"What'll it be?" she asks, opening a sizeable liquor cabinet. He follows and kneels beside her, warm and relaxed near her as he studies the contents before selecting a lovely white wine.

When they both have their glasses, they return to the living room. Zira sits on one end of the sofa and Crowley settles beside him. She kicks off her heels and tucks her feet under her, as she leans a bit closer to Zira. He smiles, glad for the closeness between them, and she finds herself smiling back.

They enjoy the wine, but enjoy each other's company more. They talk and bicker and tease and laugh and it's wonderful. At some point, the angel complements her verdant houseplants. She's rambling on about her process of caring for them, the wine making her feel so light and buoyant. She's so warm, right now, so at home, resting against Zira's shoulder, and her world has been constricted to the two of them.

She's explaining how she intimidates the plants into growing when.

When Zira sets his mostly-full wine glass on the coffee table and leans closer to her, wrapping his arms comfortably around her waist as she stutters to silence. She smiles, settling comfortably against his chest, and meets his warm eyes.

One hand cups her cheek gently, ever so gently and carefully.

Crowley leans forward and kisses him.

Of course, she's kissed him before, but it had never really been a real kiss. His lips are warm and soft against hers, and she sighs against his mouth as she presses her cheek against the warmth of his palm.

His lips are gentle, nudging against hers even when she coaxes his mouth open to her delight.

After several minutes of gentle snogging, they break apart. Aziraphale appears thoughtful. "That was…pleasant."

It startles a soft laugh from her. "I'm glad. I thought so too. But, ah, Zira…I'm not made of glass."

He grins and they kiss again—this time, it's livelier and more heated. She moans when she feels one of his hands sliding up her back to cradle the back of her neck before tangling in her hair. She feels Aziraphale smile into the kiss and nips at his bottom lip, which startles a moan from him.

The demon's hands wander under his shirt, feeling the supple skin waiting for her, and is a bit surprised to feel him shiver under her clever fingers. She would smirk, if she wasn't preoccupied by the angel's tongue exploring her mouth. Crowley is, however, surprised when a hand slides down to her arse, massaging her flesh and making her gasp in delight.

They slowly slide down to a more horizontal position, Zira stretched above her as his mouth leaves her mouth to attack her neck. She groans under his ministration—inexperienced, but observant and quick—as he suckles a mark under her left ear.

"D-darling," she stammers. "Not in front of the plants, they'll never fear me again if we can continue."

He straightens quickly, face flushed red as he turns away, and she understands her mistake. Laying a hand upon his arm, she smiles. "That doesn't mean we can't continue in the bedroom, if you'd like. It's down the hall, last door on the left…"

The invitation hangs in the air for a moment, the demon not wanting to push him too far, but he takes her pause as an opportunity.

Crowley squeals when he scoops her up into his arms, against his chest—carrying her to the bedroom. She takes the time in transit to nibble on his bobbing Adam's apple.

They land on her king-sized bed in a rushed heap, and Crowley finds herself rubbing against him.

He moans in enjoyment as he laves her neck. "You always have your hair up," he tells her in between kisses and nips. "Leaving the line of your neck exposed—so _beautiful_—thought you did it on purpose to tease me."

"Didn't—didn't know," she pants, clutching his shoulders. Meanwhile, his hands find her breasts and his mouth leaves her skin so he can look as he cups the full weight of them through the fabric of her dress. "Magnificent," he murmurs and squeezes them teasingly.

She cries out in surprise. "Not fair!" He chuckles into her collarbone, before sucking a mark there as well.

With barely a twitch of her eye, she vanishes his shirt and grins at the skin revealed.

"I have a feeling that's cheating, my dear," he murmurs in amusement.

Grinning, Crowley replies, "What did you expect, angel?" before catching his mouth and drawing him into a kiss that curls her toes and makes her lift her hips upward to grind against him. He meets her there and presses against her too, and a flush of pleasure steals across her face as her hands map out the plains of his pale, freckled chest.

The straps of her dress have fallen halfway down her arms from her shoulders, teasing to leave more of her breasts exposed. He tugs the fabric further before informing her, "My dear, this dress is lovely, but I think you'd be so much lovelier without it."

He grins and the dress is gone, leaving her in naught but a thin, lacy, midnight blue bra and matching underwear. Aziraphale fumbles with the clasp of her bra before she laughs and takes mercy on him, vanishing it as well. He cradles her breasts gently and glances at all of her with an expression of reverent awe. "Oh, Crowley, you're beautiful," he kisses her lips again before going to her breasts.

Though she isn't particularly well-endowed at the moment, it seems to make no difference to Zira, who handles them with awe and kisses them with delight. He licks a nipple experimentally and, after, seems to gather quickly how she most enjoys attention to her bust.

She moans and fists her hands in his blond hair, unable to resist the slow torment he unknowingly inflicts.

"_Zira_," she eventually pants. "_Zira…darling…_" She nudges her hips against him, biting her lip, so close from so very little. He smiles and kisses her before traveling down her body to pull the lacy panties down and reveal her. He finds her wet, swollen, and pink under a dark patch of hair, and he is quick to begin exploring with his fingers and tongue. It sends her legs writhing and kicking, before squeezing around him in warning.

She squirms under his perusal and attention. "Zira, time for that later. I want you now."

God, she was a succubus, and here she was all but begging an angel who had no experience beyond the present. Maybe that was why, though—it was Zira.

Zira who had refused her so many times. Zira who turned away from her every time before. Zira who she had silently ached to accept her offers, just once. Zira, who she cares for so much. Zira, who is here and warm and tender to her, so curious and kind to her body. Zira, who is not here for her body, who is here for _her _and—

_Damn it_, she was a demon, she wouldn't get all maudlin over this.

"Get up here, angel," she orders and he climbs back up to kiss her again with an indulgent grin. She pulls away though, to reach down and shove his slacks down, and the boxers with them. He kicks them off and out of the way.

"Crowley," he groans, his cock nudging against her netherlips.

She trembles under him. "Please, Zira—please!"

The angel smiles to her, and she can't help but smile back. He slides into her slowly, making her cry out in joy and pleasure.

So he isn't the most skilled or largest lover she's ever had. He is Aziraphale, and he is the only one that matters to her.

She throws her head back in delight and he is there, mouthing again at the exposed skin, gasping and moaning. For a moment, when he's finally completely in her, neither can do anything but moan and sigh as they enjoy the feeling for the first time.

Both cry out when he thrusts forward shallowly.

"Not—glass!" she reminds him in a gasp and the next thrust is stronger.

"Oh, God, Crowley," he groans. "So wet and hot—for me. Oh my dear…_oh_," he nearly squeaks when she tightens around him. "Oh, my dear…" The Temptress grins and pulls him down, mouth nibbling on his shoulder, determined to leave as many marks upon him as he has on her.

They don't last long, writhing and clinging and grinding and thrusting against each other as they are.

He thrusts in completely, hips pressed to hers, as one of his hands travels between them to rub against her clit, and she can't hold back her climax anymore. She orgasms, clutching her limbs around him, and screams, "_Aziraphale!_"

The angel only lasts a few more thrusts into her tight, trembling folds before he spends himself with a gasp of her name.

In the bliss afterwards, Crowley finds herself pinned under his larger body and weight, though not uncomfortably, and runs her fingers through his curls, at ease and satisfied with the world.

Minutes later, after his softening length has slipped from her, he sits up a bit and smiles. "If I'd had known it would be anything like that, my dear…I would not have been able to deny you once."

She laughs breathlessly. "Doesn't matter now. I've got you now. 'm happy."

The blond man pulls her closer to him and smiles into the mess that he's created of her hair. "So am I," he whispers. "So am I."

She nuzzles into the arms surrounding her. "Good."

* * *

They spend the night there in her bed, entwined and clinging. Her feet and hands are cold against him, and she pulls all the blankets from him in her sleep, even though she curls into him, but Zira is warm enough without the layers and holds her anyways.

They sleep, content.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Specific Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Depictions of Violence**

* * *

Sometimes Aziraphale forgets that Crowley's first corporeal form was a serpent.

It doesn't cross his mind often until the next afternoon in his bookshop, as he comes across a fine edition of Milton's Paradise Lost with a beautifully detailed snake coiled upon the spine.

The demon is with him, lounging at a table with some paperback fiction novel holding her focus, oblivious to Zira's observation.

She's been around more often, since…well, the, err, progression of their relationship the other night. Not that he minds, of course—her company or their copulation. Just thinking the word brings a flush to his face at the flashes of memory summoned—the soft curve of her lips against his, the way she tossed her head back in pleasure, the graceful lines of her body, the emotion in her voice as she cried out his name.

He coughs and changes the subject of his thoughts, glancing back at the tome in his hands.

But, despite her human form, she retains many of her serpentine qualities. He sees them everyday, though it has never before occurred to him as such.

As he observes her, Crowley yawns widely, jaw lowering further than it should. After a sigh leaves her, she closes her mouth, though her jaw works sideways momentarily, as if realigning. As if she had unhinged her jaw.

It makes him consider other similarities.

She moves with preternatural grace, the motions of her body fluid and smooth. Slow and calculated one second, sudden and precise when striking with shocking speed.

When she's particularly furious, her pupils become elongated into slits like those of reptiles, she has a strange habit of blinking far less often than humans should, even when she's at her calmest. She watches carefully with that observant gaze, missing nothing, with the awareness of a predator.

Not to mention how she hisses when she gets drunk or angry. Secretly, he finds it rather endearing, knowing that it only happens when she allows herself to relax her control and composure, or when her guard is down. When she hisses, he knows that she's utterly sincere in her reactions.

"Are you just going to stare all day, angel, or are you going to admire from a closer distance?" She asks teasingly, seeing his stare.

He laughs, and she sets aside her novel to stand before him, wrapping her arms loosely about his neck and allowing him to pull her closer by her waist.

For a moment, he studies her face closely, the sharp cheekbones and small lines and long eyelashes and verdigris grey eyes. He studies the fond, gentle smile upon her lips and the warm affection in her eyes. He studies what lies beneath, the Grace he can feel inside her being—damaged and darkened, but shining iridescently, and warm like sitting before a campfire. It make the air leave his lungs in wonder.

"You are so beautiful, my dear," he murmurs breathlessly. "And I am so grateful to be yours."

She blinks. Pauses. Blinks twice more. And stares.

Slowly, a lovely awe appears on her face too, and he is surprised to see a small tear slip from her left eye. He brushes it away with a gentle touch and she catches his hand, nuzzling her cheek into his palm. "As I am yours," she whispers back.

He catches her lips and presses a loving kiss to her full lips. It's slow and languid, without the raw passion and heat of the previous night, but instead, a gentle emotion filling him.

Their mouths dance together, easily and comfortably as they slot their bodies closer.

One of her hands begins tracing patterns across his back, sending shivers through him and causing him to deepen the kiss as his hands invade the bun of her hair to remove the pins.

She sighs into his mouth, happy to let him take the reins, as she curves up against him, hair spilling down her back.

Eventually, the demon pulls away to whisper breathlessly, "Take me to bed, Aziraphale."

He disentangles himself to quickly lock the door of the bookshop and turn the sign to inform customers of his absence before they sojourn to his bedroom upstairs.

Quickly as they enter, Crowley blinks and Aziraphale finds himself suddenly quite nude, his tartan jumper and trousers gone. "My dear, that's cheating," he reminds her, chuckling.

This time, as Aziraphale presses her into the mattress, he is slow to reveal her body, despite her protests. The windows of his room light it and in the soft filtered light of a cloudy London afternoon, he can see every part of her as he goes.

She shudders as he unbuttons her blouse and kisses the soft flesh revealed underneath the fabric, exploring and learning her body studiously. He worships the soft weight of her breasts, mouthing at her puckered nipples and worrying the surrounding skin with little nips and teases of his tongue.

With her blouse and brassiere removed, he turns his attention to her trousers and shifts them slowly down her long legs, reveling at the smooth, fair flesh he uncovers.

As he kisses his way back up to her hips, she trembles under him. "Angel," Crowley whines. "You're teasing me."

"I can't help it, you're lovely," he says into the warmth of her inner thigh. "I can't resist you, my dear. I want to learn every part of you."

With careful hands, he turns his attention to her folds, pulling her legs wider and spreading her so he can see all of her. He finds Crowley hot, flushed, and moist with arousal. She trembles as his breath fans over her sensitive flesh, throwing her head back into a pillow, fingers fluttering and curling in the sheets.

Aziraphale is and has always been a very precise, detail-oriented person who likes to seek out knowledge for the sake of discovery. In this, it is not an exception. He delights in exploring the depths of her, with his fingers and later his mouth, to see how she trembles, how she gasps, how she cries out, how she flies apart. He learns every noise and categorizes them by their cause, happy to learn more of Crowley.

"Zira…please," she eventually whines. "Please, I need you!"

He climbs back up to kiss her again before lining himself up and slowly sliding into her. Crowley cries out into his mouth as he fills her entirely and he groans, unable to help himself.

Despite how quick and fervent the other night had been, today is different. Aziraphale is nearly reverential in his exploration and worship of her body, thrusting and sliding with slow, thorough strokes.

He can't possibly know that it is completely undoing her. She was a succubus, well sometimes—sex was nothing new to her. But it had never been like this, gentle and sweet and _emotional_.

She begins to think that she can get used to it being like this.

* * *

In the afterglow, they simply lay, curled together and warm and happy. His fingers wander across her back, tracing shapes across her flesh, sometimes causing her to giggle as he brushes by ticklish spots while he smiles into her shoulder. After a few minutes, his tracing travels from her shoulder blades down to the small of her back and he pauses, sitting up curiously.

She turns her head to watch him.

"Scales?" He murmurs in surprise, finding a few scattered like freckles at the small of her back, just above the curve of her buttocks.

She hums. "I've got a few here and there. Reminders."

"Reminders of what?" He asks, brushing a hand over the iridescent scales.

There is a heavy pause before she shrugs. "Reminders of the past. Of humanity…Of the Garden and mistakes. Of the consequences thereof and all that's come of it since."

He presses a delicate kiss to the small of her back and sets about discovering her scales. He finds them scattered, only a few here and there, across her body—the inner sides of her ankles along the curve of the bones; the back of her neck just below her hairline; curving down the right side of her hips; curling behind the back of her left ear.

They remain in bed for house, lying in silence, with no more than wandering brushes of hands and a few brief kisses. Eventually she yawns widely and curls up around him, limbs snaking about, as she settles her head on his chest above his heart.

Crowley is asleep in minutes, curled up tightly around him. He doesn't mind, feeling quite touched at her easy comfort with him.

But he smiles and presses his face in the silk of her curls and kisses her head gently, so incredibly happy and unable to hide his content, warm smile.

Lying there as she slept clinging to him, the angel wonders to himself if this is what love feels like.

* * *

Demons do not love. So some say. In truth, they aren't allowed. Much less loving an angel.

Crowley loves Aziraphale anyway.

For the longest time, neither say it. They share romantic evenings, sweet dinners, passionate nights, comfortable hours in the bookshop, loving looks... But neither say it.

They know it. Oh how they know it.

On the edge of sweet release at night, the words would catch in his throat—unsaid but audible to both. She would kiss him to stop them before they could escape his lips. In the afterglow, he would curl an arm around her and hold her, but his hands were never idle: playing with her curls, stroking her sweat-dampened skin, rubbing a muscle she overstretched and pulled, caressing the scattering of scales at the small of her back. Crowley would cling to him, pressing every part of her to him that she could. Her face she would bury in his chest, neck, or side, inhaling his scent.

It is at those times that they both know it is love—but the kind you keep secret from the world, private and precious like nothing else in their lives.

The first time he voices it was after he had again found another piece of irrefutable evidence that she had good in her yet, as he later refers to it.

To be honest, it is just another day, one crisp January afternoon when they are returning from the park, strolling arm in arm across a bridge, looking out over the Thames.

Across the bridge, a mother and her young child are walking, the small girl skipping and playing as they go. She hops onto a bench and leans over the small stone wall to stare down at the water below.

Considering that it is January after all and easily below freezing, it seems obvious that there would be patches and pockets of ice. What's less obvious is the small spot of ice on the bench seat, where the girl's foot catches. One moment the girl was craning to look below and the next she was falling over, toward the icy water.

Though both angel and demon see the situation first, Crowley is quicker.

Before the girl is completely on the other side of the barrier, Aziraphale senses his companion, now invisible and hovering, catching the girl, who has one small, fragile hand catching the rail. The child can't be but ten and should not have the strength to hang on, but Crowley silently, unnoticeably, has her arms around the girl, lifting most of her weight.

Bystanders are quick to react to the girl and her mother's screams, and the child is pulled back over the rail quickly. Crowley is back at his side before anyone has the chance to realize she momentarily flickered from view.

And the angel can only stare at her.

She fidgets for a moment under his intense gaze before finally asking, "What?"

There's a defensive edge to her tone and Aziraphale is quick to calm her. "You continue to astound me, my dear."

"She'd not have survived that impact," Crowley sniffs primly, tucking an errant curl behind her ear, studying her shoes intently. "And that'd simply be another soul for upstairs."

His hand goes to her face and gently cups her cheek, sharp cheekbone to pointed chin. "I love you," he whispers softly as he stares in awe.

Crowley's amber eyes fly up to meet his own in surprise, but she pauses to glance around her. "Home," she prompts and tucks her arm into his elbow.

With a flicker of a thought on his part, they are once more in the bookshop. Immediately thereafter, he pulls her to him, arms tight about her, and kisses her deeply.

Despite the surprise, she kisses back eagerly, and twines her tongue with his.

After several minutes of this, he pulls away to stare at Crowley. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips red, her breast heaving, her eyes alight. To Aziraphale, she's never been so beautiful and he has never been this happy before in his existence.

"I love you," he says again, lips against her cheek. "I knew—I knew there was goodness in here." He taps her chest above her heart.

Crowley merely wraps herself around him again, like the serpent she was, and whispers, "Take me to bed, my angel."

Before either can blink, they tumble into their bed, still kissing. Pressed into the mattress by the angel, Crowley breaks the kiss to whisper, "Say it again, Zira—again, please—"

"I love you," he repeats and kisses the corner of her mouth. "I love you," Another kiss to her jaw line. "I love you."

The mantra continues as he kisses his way across her face, as they lose themselves in each other. When Crowley's release finally arrives, she comes with not a sound. Aziraphale follows, breaks the chant, and screams her name.

"Thank you," she murmurs into his chest afterward.

The angel kisses her again for good measure. "Twas nothing, love."

And Crowley, in that perfect moment, understands what whole and all-encompassing happiness feels like.

* * *

In the morning, they curl against each other in the light from dawn that filters in through the window.

"You shouldn't, you know," she murmurs into his collarbone.

"Shouldn't what?"

"Love me."

"But I do."

Crowley sighs and sits up, naked in both body and expression. "Zira…I'm a demon. You know this. What do you think the Host will do to you if they find out about, well…any of this? They will smite you—they'll rip your Grace from you, they'll make you Fall—"

"My dear, they already know I stood with you against the apocalypse a year ago," he replies softly.

"That turned out alright. This—this is different. Consorting with a demon—sleeping with a demon—_loving _a demon…they'd kill you for associating with me, nevermind all that! Zira, I'm evil, as far as they know, I'm using you and corrupting you for my own schemes."

Aziraphale pauses and murmurs, "There's good in you, my dear. So much good hiding under your façade of flippant apathy and haughty derision. It's why you fought the apocalypse with me and it's why you saved that little girl. I told you."

"Well, _good for you,_" she mutters sharply, childishly. "What do you want, a pie?"

He sits up, smiling, and presses a kiss to her shoulder. "You're not evil, Crowley."

She snorts. "What is good? What is evil? It's all just labels and words. And don't tell me that being on the side of the angels is equivalent to good. I'm not an angel anymore."

"You're on the side of the angels," Aziraphale comments softly.

Again, she snorts. "No, I'm on the side of _my _angel. There is a difference."

He kisses her gently, soothingly, as he rubs her shoulder. "It'll be okay. They haven't been concerned with me at all, even since our fighting the apocalypse. They'll never know. And even if they do find out, I can convince them. I'm a good influence on you, turning you good—you did save that girl, it's not unbelievable. They'll fall for it—thinking _I'm _corrupting your 'badness' into goodness."

After a moment, she grins at him wryly. "You always were the only one who could ever tempt the Temptress successfully."

"You're rubbing off on me, I think."

Her grin widens. "Well, since you mention it," she murmurs as she grinds her hips to his, startling a gasp from him.

* * *

They are happy.

Despite their conflicting natures and affiliations, they are happy together. Despite all that they have faced, despite all they could face.

It only lasts so long.

* * *

The new millennium arrives and they celebrate it on New Year's Eve like so many other people on earth around them. They smile, remembering all the millennia before.

A couple years later, there's a dramatic increase in celestial and occult activity. Most of it is across the pond, but there's enough nearby for them to worry. Aziraphale is less concerned than he should be, if you ask Crowley.

"Oh, my dear, really," he sighs when she brings it up. "They haven't even contacted me since the attempt at the apocalypse. I doubt we are a concern at the moment."

"To them, we're traitors, Zira. For the apocalypse _and _especially if they learn of our relationship. Heaven doesn't forget, and neither does Hell," she replies grimly. "They'll wait, for how long I do not know, but we should take this as a warning and take some precautions!"

Eventually, he acquiesces, agreeing to humor her.

She doesn't tell him that Hell has been attempting to contact her quite a bit, worryingly so, and she's especially anxious as it is never a pleasant summons, and certainly not when she refuses to acknowledge or respond to them.

So she plans out a system of Enochian wards and symbols, meant to protect her and Zira but repel any other angel, demon, or supernatural being. When Zira realizes how extensive lengths she's going to, he insists she stay with him above the bookshop to save some trouble. It doesn't take much convincing on his part and she doesn't really mind. She can better look after him here.

Around nine in the evening, Crowley is in the process of putting up the wards inside the shop when she runs out of paint.

"Damn," she mutters.

"Hmm?" Zira looks up from the manuscript he was examining. "Sorry?"

She sighs and stands up. "Ran out of paint. Going to run to the shop to buy more, angel," she tells him and presses a quick, gentle kiss to his lips.

Aziraphale smiles. "Be careful, my dear. Love you."

Despite the time since the initial confessions, a smile wanders onto her lips as well. "I'll be back in a few, darling."

She isn't.

* * *

Only two streets away from the shop—that's how far away she is when she's shoved into a side alley.

"Hassstur!" she hisses.

He grins viciously. "'Lo Crowley." She doesn't wait for anything else and punches the other Fallen in the face.

Hands suddenly grab her arms, pulling her back and down. Glancing over her shoulders reveals several lower-tier demons, useless little cannon fodder. She rips out of their grasp and snatches a knife from her pocket and kills three before she's pinned against a wall. Her head bounces from the force of it and her vision blurs for a moment before she can discern Beelzebub before her, grinning as he holds her there.

"Crowley, Crowley, Crowley," he growls with a vicious smirk and, with a twitch of his fingers, she is forced to drop the weapon.

Powerful as Crowley is, she cannot beat the Prince of Hell, Lucifer's second in command.

Prince of Hell he may be, but that doesn't mean she does not have a few tricks up her sleeve.

A mutter of an Enochian spell sends them all flying backwards into a brick wall, not dissimilar to how she'd been thrown. Crowley turns to blink away, but she isn't quick enough: a pair of arms encircle her from behind and she freezes when a cold angel blade comes to rest at her throat.

She closes her eyes in defeat.

"Well, our dear, rouge Crowley," Beelzebub coos into her ear. "Where _have _you been?"

"Oh, around, keeping busy, you know," she replies lightly, and the blade presses more against her skin in warning.

He hummed. "Busy enough that you can't answer our summons and orders?"

"Tight schedule."

"For more than ten years?"

"Like I said, busy, busy."

His grip tightens on her before he snaps to his underlings, "Grab her and _don't _let her escape." Hands clamp onto her arms and shoulders and the angel blade vanishes.

"Oh, going somewhere are we?" she asks curiously, trying not to tremble in their grasp.

The Prince of Hell snorts. "Did you think you could just ignore us and we'd go away? Especially after your…_display _fighting to stop the apocalypse? With an angel no less?!" He cackles. "Oh, Crowley. I thought you were smarter than that."

Her heart sinks and her only hope is that they don't think to go after Zira too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Specific Warnings: Aftermath of Violence and Torture, Severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Panic Attacks**

**May be triggering in regards to mental health.**

**...If you're interesting in listening to a song while reading, I recommend "Timshel" by Mumford and Sons. That's what helped me write this.**

* * *

Days pass.

Slowly with his coaxing, her skin begins to regrow. Her organs begin to mend and right themselves. Her bones fit together like a jigsaw puzzle and unify into a solid shape again. Her body begins to reshape into something recognizable.

Of all her body, her head is all but untouched. They wanted her cognizant. They wanted her able to talk. But…

More days pass.

She does not stir.

* * *

Until she does, three weeks after his retrieval of her.

A whimper is the first sign of life, and before long she's squirming. He goes to her side to calm her movement, to prevent her from further injury.

The moment his fingers touch her skin, she jerks away and shrinks into the blankets with a whimper.

"Crowley, my love," he murmurs. "Please stop—"

Her eyes shoot open, wide with terror. "_Nooo_," she moans at the sight of him. "Stop it Alastair, stop it. I know he's not here. Don't bother pretending—"

"It's me," he replies. "Crowley, it is _me_. Not Alastair." She flinches at his words, but he presses on. "I'll prove it. Ask me anything. Your favorite color is dark blue, like the night sky. Your favorite time of day is twilight so you can watch the stars appear. You like earl grey tea with two sugars and lemon. You love the Harry Potter books and claim to be a Slytherin, though I always tell you that you're more a Gryffindor. You have good in you like I always say and you're worth Falling and I love you."

She stares and stares but slowly the hysteric fear drains from her eyes and recognition takes its place. "Angel…" she slurs before collapsing back into the comforter, having passed out. As Aziraphale tends to and checks her injuries, tears slip down his pale cheeks.

She is all but shattered, but they had not broken her.

* * *

Adam returns shortly thereafter and heals what he can, but not even his vast Antichrist powers can restore her grace nor her wings.

"I'm sorry I can't do more," he tells his angelic godfather in a hushed tone.

"No, my boy," Aziraphale pats his shoulder. "You've done all you could. That's all I can ask for. Thank you."

The Antichrist nods grimly and hesitates. "Would it…would it be alright if I drop by again sometime soon? To visit you both?"

"Of course!" Aziraphale replies quietly with a small smile. "You're welcome anytime. You and those friends of yours."

"I might bring Them with me. If nothing else, they'll probably send cards or letters with me if nothing else. Same for Anathema and Newt. I'll ask them all though."

The angel nods wearily. "Thank you, m'boy. For all your help."

"Anytime," the Antichrist replies. He means it.

* * *

Some hours later, Aziraphale is reading by her bedside, or trying to. He can't really focus on the Latin on the page.

Crowley shifts under the blankets and his attention is upon her instantly. After a moment, her eyes open, clear and aware to his relief.

"Zira…" she croaks.

He smiles. "Hello, my dear."

The demon stares at him in awe and reaches out a weak hand for him, which he grasps quickly, stroking her pale skin comfortingly. "Angel, how did you…how are…" she swallows. "Explain."

He does.

"How much damage was done, Zira?" she asks softly. "After a while I…I lost track and withdrew into my mind. It's, well. I'm still a bit…foggy now."

The angel wets his lips. "My dear…You were…I can't—" He closes his eyes and shakes his head, unable to find the words. "I healed you as best as I could, and Adam stopped by earlier to help. But…" His voice breaks.

"Zira," she looks to him in confused concern. "What? Tell me, please."

"They…they cut off your wings, Crowley," he whispers.

Her face drops into horrified devastation, made worse as she feels the scar of their absence. He pulls her into his arms as she crumples. Both are in tears as she buries her face in his chest, sobbing. After a time, he ends up in bed with her, holding her as she clutches to him.

There they remain, clinging to each other, mourning for the pain and loss she felt.

* * *

Much later, she eventually inquires how he rescued her, how he found her, how he got her out. He explains as best as he can, avoiding mentions of how frantic and reckless he was, how much he disregarded his safety and wellbeing to look for her, but she sees it.

"You shouldn't have neglected yourself so, angel," she murmurs to him. "I can see the new paleness in your face, the sleepless nights under your eyes, the lack of care for your body in the edge of your ribs that I can see."

He shrugs. "I couldn't live with myself if anything were to happen to you because I wasted my time."

The thought makes her tremble as she tightens her arms about him. "If something like this ever happens again—you have to promise me, swear to me that you won't neglect yourself so. I can't possibly expect to give up looking for me, but…don't kill yourself doing so. Life without you would only lead to suicide. I only ask that…if I ever vanish again, if you can't find any leads…don't cling to hope that I'm alive. Move on. Try to live without me."

His expression is pained. "I…Crowley, my dear…I cannot…"

"You must," she insists. "I want your oath. A blood oath."

After a long moment of pained consideration, he nods. "Only if you agree to the same."

She does, but she never expects to be held to it.

* * *

For many days, she remains in their bed, unwilling to face the world beyond their bedroom. Azirphale is loath to leave her for anything, whether it be to fetch food or tea or books or blankets.

One night, she wakes him sometime near three. After he shakes off the haze of sleep and places his glasses upon his face, he takes in her pale features, the trembling of her body, the tears down her face.

"Zira—_sorry_—" she gasps, breathing quick and uncontrolled.

He hesitates. "Contact, good or bad?" he asks and she jerks her head in a rough nod, so he wraps his arms about her carefully—firmly, enough so she knows he's there—but not enough to make her feel trapped. The last time she'd had a panic attack, contact was bad and she'd crawled away to lean against the headboard, several feet away from him, needing the space. This time, she craved the comfort touch brought.

"—didn't want to—wake—you but—" Crowley gets out inbetween sobbing gasps, "_Can't_—need—_breathing_—"

The angel rubs his hands up and down her back and arms slowly. "Breathe, dear. Breathe. Just breathe—with me, yes? Nice and slow." For several long minutes, they focus on the deep breaths, interrupted by the soft hiccups in the aftermath of her sobs. "Just like that, Crowley, yes. I'm here, I'm with you—you're not alone."

Her hand clenches in the fabric of her shirt over her chest. "Zira, I c-can't—my heart, it's—"

"I know," he murmurs. "I know it hurts. You're not dying, I promise, my dear. You're not dying and you're not crazy. Everything will be alright. Keep breathing."

She presses her sweaty forehead to his shoulder. "Sorry, didn't want to—to wake you up, but—"**  
**

Aziraphale presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "It's alright, you know I don't mind. I'd rather you not deal with this alone. Did you have another dream?"

Slowly, her breathing has begun to relax and deepen, her shaking beginning to steady. "I-I did, yes," she agrees softly.

It's the sixth time that she's had to wake him because she was suffering a panic attack. The first time had been terrifying for both, but they had slowly learned what helped best. She hates to bother him, afraid to irritate him, afraid of judgment, afraid that he'll eventually snap and tell her to get over it. Aziraphale, however, does none of these things. Instead, he does his best to help her calm down and offer comfort.

It isn't easy, but they manage.

After half an hour, she presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. "I think I can go back to sleep now, angel," she admits.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offers, as he always does.

Crowley thinks of the dream—_the memories of Alastair cutting away at her wings, plucking feathers, mutilating organs_—and shakes her head, shaking away the thoughts. "No, not tonight. Just, just hold me, please."

"Of course." They lay down again in bed, wrapped up in each other, and return to sleep. This time, it's dreamless.

* * *

Time can't heal this wound, but it does scab over and scar. It's no longer fresh, though she still feels her wings' absence constantly.

They recover, cling to each other, and slowly heal the hidden scars caused by their separation.

* * *

It takes time for their life to return to something even vaguely similar to 'normal'.

They are visited by Adam and his friends and Anathema and Newt, the closest things to friends that they have. It's heartwarming, to see them again after so long, all so concerned for Crowley, who actually greets them fondly, if tiredly. Their visitors bring with them desserts and cooked dinners and cards and flowers. It's a lovely, unexpected gesture, and it actually brings a smile to the demon's lips.

Crowley slowly begins to smile regularly, to emerge from the bedroom more than once a week, to dress and later leave the building. Despite her trauma, she never flinches from Aziraphale. In fact, she seems to reach out to him more, seeking contact and comfort even more, not that the angel minds at all.

He's reluctant to participate in more…amorous activities, but she promises she's alright and that she will tell him if that changes. It doesn't and their activities, if anything, seem to make Crowley more herself, more assured that life is returning to normal, more secure that she really has been saved and that this isn't a dream.

Somehow, they move on, scarred, but alive and living. Which are, of course, two very different things. They manage both.

* * *

They're walking to their duck pond one day when they stop at a tea shop on the way to grab some warm beverages, as while it's not very cold out, the biting wind makes it chilly.

While it doesn't both Aziraphale much, Crowley loathes the cold and has bundled up carefully with a lavishly warm coat. Still, she shivers whenever a strong gust manages to pierce her coat.

When he suggests stopping to grab some tea to go, he knows it will help her keep warm and how much she'll appreciate it. They order and wait patiently in the nearly empty shop at a table for their tea. When the woman brings their teas, Crowley accepts both styrofoam cups with a polite murmur of thanks. The woman smiles and winks. "Have a nice day with your handsome young man, dearie!"

Both Zira and the demon flush pink as they chuckle to themselves.

"Ready to go?" He asks with a smile.

"To walk with my handsome young man?" She laughs quietly. "Of course."

They walk, with her hand tucked into his elbow neatly, brushing against each other as they go.

When they reach their bench, she sits closer than usual, using him to help block the wind and to steal body heat. He grins and wraps an arm about her to help.

Neither speak for quite a while, enjoying the fresh air and familiar sights of the park. Her eyes catch the joggers and couples and parents and children filling the park, until she sees a young twenty-something couple playing with a toddler nearby.

"Do you ever wonder what it'd be like?" She asks softly.

"Hmm?" He breaths into her hair, a wordless question.

Crowley explains softly, "Being human. Having a mortal life like that. Childhood, adolescence, adulthood, marriage, children, death? All of that?"

The angel considers it. "Not often. There's little point, really, in wondering what it'd be like for us, but…sometimes I wonder what humanity is like, yes. How it feels to not know how long you have left with your loved ones, not knowing what your purpose is…"

"Or having the will to choose your purpose," she replies softly, regretfully. "What it must be like… We could do anything we wanted. Go to university, get real jobs, travel how one should—experience life as it was meant to be lived. We could do anything—anything at all."

She pauses as the toddler laughs loudly, joyously, and the parent smile on, blissful and proud and content with their silly little pointless lives. "We could even have a family," she murmurs softly.

He grabs her hand and intertwines their fingers comfortingly. "Do you…do you want a family? Or children, my dear?"

She hesitates, unsure; the idea is a completely foreign concept to her. "I think…I would like to have the choice." The fallen angel cannot imagine being a mother at all—_children_. Good God. How…terrifying. That was discounting the fact that any children of theirs would be nephilim—abominations, according to Heaven, dangerous, to be destroyed upon creation. Forbidden…But…her words are true. The choice, the option, the freedom…would be appreciated.

She sighs thoughtfully. "Have you ever…ah, considered…becoming human?"

He stills and adjusts his glasses thoughtfully. "I…not really. Perhaps we miss out on some things but…they do too. And were we not as we are, I'd…well. Who knows if we'd ever know each other as humans. This life has given me six thousand years and I've spent so many of them with you. I can't regret that, my dear."

Crowley glances up at him, startled, and smiles. "I agree." She pauses and laughs. "God, when did we become such saps?"

His laugh warms her more than any tea ever could.

* * *

Slowly, Crowley returns to her old self, but Aziraphale can see the still-bleeding wounds and not-quite-scars, no matter how hard she works to hide them from him.

There are nights she cannot sleep at all, for fear of dreaming. When she actually manages to sleep, he often wakes to find her curled up in a protective ball, trembling—or screaming in her sleep—or sobbing out in agony and terror. Too often does this happen.

Most of her days are spent with him in the bookshop, no longer out tempting or seducing or anything of the kind. Instead, she settles near the counter, near him, with some novel to distract her while he either reorganizes, repairs books, cleans, or scares off customers. He often looks up from his work to check on her. Usually, she is engrossed in her novel, or busy writing, or using the computer, or listening to some music—but there are times when he finds her pale and staring into space, mind wandering back to Hell. The angel can usually pull her from those dark thoughts with a gentle hand on the shoulder, which makes her shiver as she shakes off the unwelcome, lingering ghosts.

It isn't much that he can do for her, but he tries.

He _knows_ there are some wounds that can only heal with time, but also that there are some beyond time's capacity for healing, too deep and scarred to ever return to their previous condition. He knows this, has to remind himself that he can't just fix this for her. That he can't just fix her.

But he doesn't allow her to drift into those dark memories often, keeps her company to distract her and keep her focused on happier thoughts—whether that means getting her assistance to scare off persistent customers, dining at the Ritz, feeding the ducks, singing Queen, or more carnal distractions.

Aziraphale does what he can, not that he minds much. He enjoys the increase of time spent with his dear beloved, and slowly…slowly, he finds that the ghosts are weakening their hold on her, though he isn't sure if they will ever be properly exorcised.

He does know, however, that Crowley is stronger than them.

* * *

**Notes:**

**In regards to the panic attack contained in this chapter, I really hope it wasn't triggering to anyone. I have severe depression and anxiety, and have suffered countless panic attacks. My roommate also suffers from anxiety and panic attacks. This chapter reflects my personal experiences with them, so it may or may not hold true for others.**

**Should you, dear reader, ever find yourself helping someone during a panic attack, my advice is thus: be patient, be kind, remind them to breathe, don't be offended if they don't want to be touched, ask how you can help (hugging, walking, relocating, turning on/off lights, getting blankets, offering water or tea, etc). Each person and each panic attack is somewhat different, and no two people react the same.**

**Again, this was written with my personal experiences in mind, so if you have any thoughts or questions, they're welcome.**

**And if you ever, _ever_ want to talk, I'm here. I promise.**


	8. Chapter 8

**It's a lighter chapter. Comparatively, speaking. Enjoy it while it lasts.**

**Recommended listening: "Move Along", All-American Rejects**

* * *

The rain pounds upon the store-front windows, the wind rattling the door at times, and lightning flashing every few minutes. It's been storming like this for two days. While Crowley has nothing against rain or a refreshing thunderstorm, it makes leaving the building problematic. (She's just grateful they don't have to commute to get home.) While they are safe to remain in the shop and their flat all day, it also meant they could not easily go to the Ritz or the park.

At this point, it's kind of just getting ridiculous, even if Zira is glad that the weather has scared off visitors.

And so that dark afternoon finds Aziraphale carefully cleaning up an old manuscript's cover while the demon softly plays some classic rock on the radio while she reads aloud the most recent Harry Potter novel.

In the middle of a discussion about the greasy git Snape and the little ferret Malfoy, the door flies open as a man rushes in, utterly soaked.

"Oh my!" Zira exclaims, startled. "Are you alright, sir?"

The man chuckles. "A bit wet, but that's no issue. I just had some trouble getting in."

Crowley eyes him in surprise. American.

"Ah, yes the wind is rather terrible, too," the angel replies, eyeing the windows.

Their visitor raises an eyebrow slowly. "And here I thought it had more to do with the complex Enochian wards guarding this place."

Instantly, Crowley darts across the store to stand in front of Aziraphale protectively, her angel blade drawn and raised. "How did you get passed them?" she snarls, face pale.

The man—well, man-shaped being—pauses. Curious, but not threatened or intimidated in the least. "Huh. A demon guard dog. Didn't expect that…unless…she's, what, either a captor or prisoner?"

"What?!" Aziraphale sputters, offended. "She—she's nothing of the sort! What do you want of us?"

"Oh, come on, Azzie—is that any way to treat an estranged brother?"

Crowley's lip curls. "Family doesn't mean much, not when most of them want to kill us. Who _are_ you?" she spits.

He laughs. "Protective little thing, very odd. I mean, I know I've been away for a while, but I'm pretty sure angels and demons shouldn't be shacking up together." He grins. "What, don't you recognize me? Well, I suppose that's the Trickster in me throwing you off…"

"_A name_," the demon snarls as she steps forward and presses the tip of the angel blade to his throat.

"Gabriel, _duh_." He rolls his eyes. "Here, check if you don't believe me."

For a moment, they can feel his Grace filling the shop—indeed, Gabriel the Messenger stands before them. Crowley stumbles back into Aziraphale in surprise.

Aziraphale, in turn, steps in front of Crowley, blocking the archangel's view of her as much as he can, being shorter than her presently. "Gabriel—how? I thought you were…Where have you been?"

"In hiding," he shrugs. "I went native with the Norse gods, became a trickster—you remember, Azzie. I ran away because I didn't want to watch my older bros kill each other. I heard over angel radio you helped prevent an attempt at the apocalypse a few years ago and I thought it'd be prudent of me to find you and talk about recent events with you…though I _hadn't_ heard anything about you associating with a demon."

The archangel eyes her carefully, as if trying to determine the right angle to attack from, and Aziraphale draws himself straighter, even as Crowley lays a hand on his shoulder. "You will not harm her, Gabriel."

"Won't I?" he wonders curiously. "Interesting. Last I heard, demons weren't our allies."

"Neither are Norse gods, Gabriel. Forgive me but I shan't allow it," Aziraphale replies firmly. "She is not to be harmed, especially if you are here on friendly terms."

Gabriel's eyebrows raise again. "Well, I came on friendly terms with you."

"You won't touch her," the other maintains.

She grasps his right hand from behind him. "Zira," she murmurs into his ear. "He's one of the most powerful beings in all of Creation…it wouldn't do to anger or oppose him. He could take us out without batting an eye. Darling, I can fight my own battles, don't endanger yourself."

Surprised, Gabriel studies them curiously, interested because of her words. "Tell ya what. The blades go away, I don't smite you, and you two explain how you came to be so cozy."

* * *

Two hours later, they are curled together on the sofa and Gabriel is sprawled in an armchair, facing them as he sips on whisky.

"Huh, well—glad I didn't smite you on sight then, Black-Eyes," he remarks casually.

"Yes," she agrees dryly. "So am I. Thanks for that."

The archangel hums, observing them thoughtfully. "You're one of the Fallen, aren't you, ah…Crowley, right?" She nods reluctantly. "And…weren't you Sariel?"

She stiffens. "I was once known as such, yes."

Gabriel sits forward. "Really? Interesting…"

"What is, Gabriel?" Aziraphale asks in confusion.

"…You really don't remember?"

They exchange brief glances. "Um…remember what?"

"Never mind then," he replies simply, a bit sadly, before covering it with a big smirk. "So, you've got a demon for a Mate, huh, Azzie?"

He squeezes Crowley's hand. "Yes, she is. Now you understand our behavior when you announced yourself."

"Yeah, I can't say many of our brothers and sisters woulda listened to your history. Glad I did, I suppose."

Zira sniffs and adjusts his glasses. "Yes, well, I must ask for your word that you'll keep our relationship and location secret, please, Gabriel."

"Of course," he grins. "You have it, and I expect the same of you two. Don't exactly want everyone to know I'm still up and breathing."

Crowley snorts. "As if we're that stupid not to expect that, Gabriel," she replies sharply, tossing her loose curls over her shoulder.

He watches the motion, chuckles, and wiggles his eyebrows at them. "Picked a real looker, didn't you, bro? Bet she's a hellcat in bed."

"Gabriel!" Aziraphale admonishes sharply, face red. "She's a lady."

Crowley laughs despite herself. "It's alright, Zira. And if you must know, Gabe…I'm a lady in the streets, as for the sheets, well…" She smirks. "Not exactly. I'm known as the Temptress, if that helps."

It makes the brunette angel bust into laughter, even as the other flushes brighter. "Well, I never pegged you as the femme fatale type, but you hooked yourself quite a little vixen, Az. I approve."

"Aren't you a flatterer?" she laughs. "Oh, come now, Zira, there's no need to be so embarrassed, love."

He eyes the two of them in exasperation. "You two getting along isn't going to be very enjoyable for me, is it?"

"I dunno, bro," Gabriel grins. "How d'you feel about constant innuendo and sarcasm?"

Aziraphale groans half-heartedly.

* * *

"So, have you two heard what's up recently?"

The couple pause.

"Not really," Crowley replies. "Although there has certainly been an increase in supernatural activity…In addition, I was kidnapped by some demons a few months ago and tortured in hell. I was greeted by the ever-so-lovely Lilith, so we can assume that another attempt at the apocalypse is in the works."

Gabriel nods. "Bingo. Got it in one, Crowles. Lilith's back and making a bee-line for releasing Lucifer. You heard of the Winchester boys? They're a couple of hunters in the US. They're the true vessels for Mikey and Lucy. In addition, the older one, Dean, broke the First Seal."

To her left, Aziraphale inhales sharply. "The first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell," he recites.

"Exactly," the archangel nods. "Some angels pulled him outta Hell and he's back with Sam, his little bro—well, not really little. Kid's a fucking giant, like six-four of something." He wiggles his eyebrows and smirks. "Let's just say I'd climb him like a tree, given the chance. Then again, they're both handsome fuckers."

Crowley laughs, but gives him a glance for him to get back on subject, before Zira's face is permanently stained that red. He does.

"…Anyway, now Lilith and her lot are in a mad dash to break as many seals as possible. Heaven, unfortunately, has decided it's time for the ultimate showdown, so they aren't doing anything to stop them. The Winchesters and their gang of hunters are doing their best to stop them, but they can only do so much."

"The clock is ticking," Crowley surmises. "How long does it look like we've got?"

"Maybe a year or two. At most. The Hardy Boys are more resourceful than Lilith thinks."

The silence stretches thin between them, delicate and nervous, until Crowley sighs. "Well, fuck."

Gabriel grins, wiggling his eyebrows. "If you insist, I'm game."

The demon snorts. "Nice try. I'll stick with Zira, though. Now if you could please refrain from the propositions. I think Zira might blow a gasket."

"Where's the fun in that?" the archangel laughs.

Crowley rolls her eyes.

* * *

Gabriel stays for a week in their guest room. He spends most of that time discussing lore and whatnot with Aziraphale, hoping to find somewhat to set the demons back or to stop them all together. After all, their little bookshop contains some of the world's rarest and most useful books on the supernatural and celestial.

But it's all for naught. They can do nothing now, only hope that these Winchesters are lucky and, once Lucifer is free, both deny the archangels as long as possible.

They discuss the endgame—once Lucifer is free. "The only thing I can think of to stop the apocalypse at that point," Gabriel says slowly, "Is to use the Horsemen's rings to lock him back up in the Cage again."

He helps Crowley re-ward the shop, stronger than ever, boosted by his power.

At Zira's encouragement, she slowly, haltingly explains what happened to her wings. He examines them carefully, but regretfully apologizes as even he can't do anything. In a moment of rare sincerity, he hugs her and ruffles her hair fondly.

The archangel thanks them for their hospitality and departs for America, to see what he could do.

Crowley and Zira are left in the shop, embracing each other in worry.

"I don't think we can stop this one, angel," she whispers into his neck.

He pulls her closer and presses his lips to her head. "We always manage, my dear. This time will be no different. We'll manage."

* * *

They don't.

* * *

**Notes:**

**Ah, good ol' Gabriel.**  
**And of course some nice foreboding. *wiggles eyebrows* **

**Also, I'm still writing this. I'm currently at 103,000 words, and still not done. :)**

**Hope you're enjoying it - drop a line, let me know in the comments! Anything you'd like to see? Any requests? I'll try to work them in.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Specific Warnings: Aftermath of Violence, Character Death, Graphic Discussion and Threats of Rape, Implied (off-screen) Torture, and the beginnings of Alcoholism.  
**

* * *

Crowley wakes up one morning groggy, dizzy, and confused.

"Zzzira?" she slurs as she sits up, and realizes that she's on the floor beside their bed. There's a bitter taste on her tongue and it makes her still in horror. A spell. That's the only thing that leaves this kind of bitter aftertaste.

She searches her memory to recall the previous night, but she can't remember anything past yesterday morning.

The demon stumbles to her feet, catching herself on the edge of a bookshelf to steady herself before she falls. After her vision focuses, she observes their bedroom with a sense of horror.

There is blood smeared on the hardwood floor—large puddles of blood with a few feathers lying in the mess. A bit of magic confirms her fears: it's Aziraphale's.

"Zira!" she calls out urgently, eyes searching over the ransacked and messy room—tables knocked over, books scattered, their bedroom door cracked down the middle.

She runs through the flat and bookshop, but she only finds more disaster, more blood, and no Zira.

He's gone.

* * *

Crowley can find nothing. Nothing.

No evidence to tell her who broke through her wards or wiped her memory or took Aziraphale. Nothing.

She can't even determine if it was Heaven or Hell.

Quick spell work reveals that he is not on earth anymore and she despairs.

He's gone.

_He's gone._

* * *

There isn't much she can do, but she does it all. She pulls every favor, asks every contact, everything. But she can't find anything of her angel.

So she puts on her proverbial big girl panties, steels herself, and returns downstairs.

Lesser demons take her to Lilith immediately upon recognizing her and hearing her order.

"Well, Crowley," the blond greets coldly. "Been a while. Remind me again, when did you escape?"

She shrugs. "Oh, a while ago. Angels were everywhere and I used the distraction."

"You're a clever one, Crowley," Lilith comments softly. "I need clever ones instead of just brainless muscle. I'm willing to overlook your previous…negligent absences, if you're interested."

"Why, Lilith, you read my mind," she replies easily. "Sabbatical's over. Time to get back to work. I know you're working on the breaking the seals, I know it shan't be much longer until our Father is free and defeating Michael, despite what those stupid Winchesters seem to think."

The 'first demon' observes her curiously. "You're _very _well informed."

"What did you think I was doing in my absence? Drinking cocktails of infants' blood while lounging about on a beach? Please. I was out and about, busy, catching myself up on what I'd missed during my…time with Alastair."

Lilith nods, coolly thoughtful. "As you say. For now, I want you on the Crossroads. You're in charge, just make sure the number of souls gathered increases."

A cunning smirk steals across her red lips. "That I can do."

* * *

If there's one thing Lilith admires, it's efficiency.

Crowley knew this and knew her reputation for efficiency and getting the job done. She was known to be cunning, intelligent, ruthless, and manipulative.

They were all traits Lilith valued in her supporters. There were too many stupid, uncreative demons who could act as cannon fodder. It was more difficult to find clever lieutenants.

Crowley had known this and had fully expected Lilith to see her as an asset. Especially now, when she was working so diligently to free Lucifer.

She had not expected the Crossroads, but _oh _did that suit her.

The Crossroads Demons, a clever, manipulative bunch, take to her immediately. They love the Temptress, love her strategy, love her methods, love her ruthlessness. She accepts their love and obedience easily. (Of course, they don't all love her, but she establishes her dominance and crushes the opposition easily under her stiletto heels with a smile upon her face.)

Being Queen of the Crossroads really gave one a reputation and power. Both of which she used to investigate Aziraphale's disappearance and, after weeks of searching, had to conclude that Heaven was responsible.

He was beyond her reach.

For now…all she could do was accumulate more power, learn Lilith's plans so she could divert them, and work to prevent the apocalypse.

Eventually, thanks to her efficacy and Lilith's sadistic temper, Crowley finds herself as Lilith's second in command.

It really says something about Crowley that she has no idea how she manages to pull stunts like this unknowingly.

After a time, she catches up on the more recent ongoings in the supernatural community on earth as well as the events in Hell.

The name 'Winchester' is spoken quite frequently. She takes the time to learn more than what Gabriel told her.

Sam and Dean Winchester, hunters. Overprotective, reckless, foolish, codependent brothers with daddy issues. The younger had been among Azazel's chosen children. Of course, that hadn't worked out, as Sam was killed and Dean had sold his soul to get Sam back. A year later, Dean was in Hell on the rack…only to be rescued by angels. And, because the world is never so random, the brothers were the true vessels of Michael and Lucifer.

Crowley sighs when she realizes what this means.

This time, it really is the Apocalypse. And it'd take an act of God to stop it.

That doesn't mean Crowley's just going to lie down and let it happen.

* * *

Ghosts from her past haunt her, unfortunately. Alastair, whenever she sees him, gives her a lascivious smirk and leer. The stumps and scars of her wings ache even more in Aziraphale's absence. Nightmares still taint her sleep, made worse by the fact that there was no one to wake her and comfort her.

Not anymore.

No one, however, knows of Aziraphale. Or so she thinks until one evening when she's working on some paperwork in her office in Hell until an unwelcome guest strides in.

"Well, well, well," he drawls furiously. "Crowley."

She doesn't bother glance up from the contract she's editing. "Hastur. Can I help you?" the Queen of the Crossroads asks, unimpressed with his swagger.

"Oh yes, I just heard of your promotion—congratulations," he says oily. "The whore's back working as a whore."

Finally, she glances up from her desk. "That's Queen of the Crossroads, to you, Hastur. And Lilith's right hand. Mind your tongue."

"Of course, she's using your skills so efficiently, so glad for your return," he replies, snarling at the threat. "I wonder what she'd say if she knew of your involvement with that angel?"

Slowly, she places her pen on the desk and leans back in her chair to observe him coldly. "My involvement with what?"

"That pathetic little angel who owned the bookshop, Aziraphale," he answers with a cruel smirk. "I wonder if she knows of your relationship with him. After we caught you, I was curious what you'd been up to. How pathetic it was—the legendary _Temptress_: bedding an angel and going soft. I bet you let him fuck you, didn't you? I bet you loved it, you stupid slut—you probably begged for his angel cock."

Crowley stands to observe him coldly. "Is that what you think?" she asks archly.

He snorts. "Don't play coy, _Crawly_—it doesn't suit you. You were his little pet, weren't you? Just when we thought you couldn't fall any further—you go to an angel's bed. That stupid, dithering angel. Not even much to look at, but I'll bet you loved him fucking you, didn't you? Disgusting."

She steps out from behind her desk with careful movements as she prowls closer to the perverse Duke of Hell, closing the doors of her office with a flick of her hands. "Is that what you think, Hasssstur?" she purrs into his ear, circling around him slowly. "That I just loved his cock so much? Hm…You're right, I suppose." Crowley pauses to brush tauntingly at the growing erection in his trousers. "I suppose you thought the little slut should have come to you instead of some angel scum, hmm? You would have loved it. Just as I loved him fucking me."

"You bitch," he seethes as she palms his erection spitefully. "I should bend you over that desk right now and show you, you uppity cunt. Shoulda done it a long time ago too—just shove you down and fuck the memory of that angel out of you, make you scream, until you can't walk for a week. If you thought some idiotic, fumbling angel was that great of a fuck—"

It only makes her laugh derisively. "Oh, darling, I know he was. All the people I've fucked over the years? So many, I know, but—he was the best. I loved fucking him…I suppose it helped that I loved _him_."

Hastur crows, equally triumphant and disgusted. "You thought you _loved _him?! How soft have you gone, Crowley? Fuck. Wait til Lilith hears her right hand thinks herself in _love_," he sneers, "with an angel. An angel who's likely _dead _if what I hear is right. How pathetic you are."

The Duke of Hell turns to leave but he is, suddenly, sent down and pinned upon the floor.

"Not so fast, dearie," she snarls with a tight grin as she creates a few cruelly sharp knives in her hands. "After all, it's been so long since we've seen each other. Time to catch up—starting with what you know about Aziraphale."

"Sentimental now, are you?" he spits. "I heard you were there when he was taken—subdued by a simple spell. There in the same room, as they drove an angel blade into his heart—as his Grace ripped apart and destroyed. But you woke up in bed without a clue. Imagine your expression when you realized you'd never see him again."

Crowley smiles coldly. "That's an excellent start. Let's find out what else you know," she remarks as she kneels over him, knives ready.

"All of this, Crowley—just for an angel, really?"

She snarls. "He was _mine_. He was _my angel_. Now, you're going to pay."

As he laughs, inky smoke begins to pour out of his mouth.

The Queen of the Crossroads, however, is ready and shoves him back into the vessel. "You're not going anywhere, Hastur. Time to play."

* * *

Hastur knows nothing about Aziraphale's disappearance. He'd heard that Crowley's angel had been taken while she was subdued by a spell—told as much by Beelzebub.

But he had nothing to do with it.

His misinformation reveals that much. As little as Crowley is sure of, she knows Aziraphale wasn't killed there, as it would have left the burn impressions of his wings.

He's not dead. He can't be dead, she tells herself. _Zira is not dead._

Hastur knows nothing.

That doesn't stop Crowley from thoroughly torturing the other Fallen with Alastair's methods, before she eventually carves his wings into bits while he's fully conscious and screaming. Only then does she kill him: slowly, agonizingly.

She has no qualms about admitting to enjoying his pain.

* * *

Despite the subtle warnings and whispers she sends down the grapevine to reach the Winchesters, they still break the last seal and release Lucifer.

That night, Crowley wants nothing more than to get drunk, but she can't bear even the thought of wine like she and Zira used to drink together. So she finds the most different thing and eventually settles on Glencraig whisky.

The burn down her throat distracts her from the ache in her chest and the remains of her wings.

Beelzebub is her only possible lead on Aziraphale's abduction, but he is too powerful for her. Going against him would be suicide. Besides, he's gone presently, off on some mission. She can do nothing.

_I've failed you, angel. I couldn't stop the apocalypse. I couldn't find you. I failed you._

* * *

Later, after she's sobered up, she returns to Hell in time for Lucifer's arrival.

She watches his pomp and righteousness, his wounded-façade, how he preaches against God and the angels and heaven and humans. It's interesting, in some ways. Millennia later, it's practically the same speech as when he'd rallied the other Fallen for a final battle against Heaven—a battle that ended with his imprisonment.

The parallels are interesting, though there is no one else there to remember or notice them. She's the only one left, now. Having killed Hastur and Ligur…she was the only Fallen left, save Lucifer himself and Beelzebub, the second of which was absent, off on some errand.

Which made her the third most powerful being in Hell.

_…Excellent._

* * *

**Notes:**

**Here comes the Supernatural-heavy plot. The Winchesters will be appearing soon, as well as various other SPN characters.**

**If you can't tell, Crowley is currently in denial, telling herself that Aziraphale must still be alive. (I'm not saying one way or another. Nor does the Character Death warning necessarily mean more than Hastur.)**

**Also, well. . . here comes the downward spiral of Crowley's mental state. And the darker turn for our story. (Because obviously Crowley's imprisonment and torture in Hell wasn't dark enough.)**


	10. Chapter 10

With Lucifer free, time is truly ticking.

It's down to the Winchesters, now.

She sends feelers out, scouts and listeners, to watch and observe the hunters. She hears whispers, hears rumors that they aren't so hot on the apocalypse either. They even, if her sources are correct, have a pet angel on their side—Castiel, the Angel of Thursday. As the archangels' vessels, neither of the brothers are keen to be possessed for a death match, nor for the world to end.

They, she decides, are perfect.

Time to scheme out a plot to get into their trust.

* * *

The Colt.

That's her answer.

A famed and hidden modified Colt, able to kill demons with a single shot. Thought lost…until they found it.

And lost it. Again.

Of course.

But just like that…an idea coalesces in her mind.

* * *

Crowley finds the Colt in the hands of a thief by the name of Bela Talbot, a cunning femme fatale with interest only in self-preservation. (Crowley likes her the instant she hears of the woman's reputation.) In addition, the thief had made a crossroads deal very nearly ten years ago.

The Queen of the Crossroads appears in the thief's hotel room, just as hell hounds begin to break in.

"Enough, boys!" she snaps, and they whimper in submission, halting several feet behind her. Crowley looks to the shaken thief. "Bela Talbot, yes?"

"Here to collect my soul?" she snips in a sharp English accent. Her voice trembles slightly, bravado unable to completely hide her fear.

The demon pauses to seat herself comfortably and smiles kindly. "Not quite, darling. In fact…I'm offering you the chance to buy it back. And there's only two conditions."

"I'm listening," Bela agrees warily.

"Excellent," Crowley replies lowly. "You give me the Colt, and then you leave America for good, never to return, never to contact anyone here again, _especially _not the Winchesters."

The thief watches her carefully. "And why would I do that?"

"Because Heaven and Hell are about to burst wide open. They're going to attempt the apocalypse soon and the Winchesters have starring roles."

She snorts. "Why doesn't that surprise me?" she mutters.

"Yes, it's hardly shocking news, I must agree," Crowley says wryly. "But they will be important, and so shall the Colt. If it makes you feel any better, I'm working to stop the apocalypse. So really, making this deal is in your best interest. Especially considering I'm going to rip up your previous contract and allow you to live on."

Relief allowing her snark and sass to return, the thief smiles slyly. "Well, when you put it that way, how can a girl refuse?"

* * *

Becky glances between the Winchester brothers. "Well you know she was lying, right? Bela gave the Colt to a demon named Crowley."

* * *

Crowley waits in her usual state and gender, lounging in her home with a tumbler of whiskey in her hand. Though there is a documentary on Nazi Germany on the telly, her attention is outside, sensing as three hunters break in and kill her demonic security. Not that she minds. The little buggers were nosy, annoying, horny little bastards.

She had allowed the pet angel to spy on one of her deals, to follow her to the mansion. It was a coincidence that she made the deal while in male form, it really was.

When the power goes out, Crowley waits patiently.

The demon is dressed up for the occasion in a sexy little red number, the silky fabric draped over her skin and molding to her curves. The neckline is draped too, falling down between her breasts. The hem does not even hit her knee, but that suits her purpose. Her black stilettos are less practical, but they make an impression and Crowley learned to fight in heels centuries ago. With her black hair piled elegantly atop her head and blood red lipstick to match the dress, she is hell in high heels and ready for the famous Winchesters.

"Crowley, right?" one calls from the other end of a hallway.

She enters the hall and their sights; their eyes widen. "So…the Hardy boys _finally _found me. Certainly took you long enough."

They are exactly what she's expected, from all that she's heard, from demons and Gabriel alike. The brothers are tall, good-looking, and lethal. Sam has the look of a gentle giant, but she has heard of his temper. Dean reminds her of a Ken doll, honestly, but he's familiar. Gabriel was right—they're both handsome and she concurs with what he'd said: given the chance, she would jump their bones.

The _fun _way, not the demonic way.

"Wait, _you're _Crowley?" Dean exclaims in disbelief, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy.

She laughs smugly. "Oh my dear, _really_," she purrs. "You act as if you've never met a female demon before. Which I _know _you have."

"Uh…"

Her smirk curls wider. "Or perhaps it's because your pet angel saw me as a man making a deal."

"So that _was _you," Sam nods and pauses. "Why the change?"

She laughs. "A homophobic, stupid, greedy banker? Please. He got off too easy making the cursory negotiations with one of my girls. I needed to seal the deal anyway, why not have some fun? But I admit, I find this form more…_comfortable_," she purrs, the pitch of her voice dropping sensuously. "Suits me better."

"Your favorite meatsuit?" Dean mutters testily.

The demon smiles. "Something like that. It has its advantages," she adds, shoving her full breasts up ostentatiously, grinning. She strides forward, heels clicking loudly, but she stops before the rumpled Persian rug.

Crowley growls under her breath when she sees the devil's trap spray painted on the bottom of it. "Do you have _any _idea how much this rug cost?" she asks them as two of her lackeys sneak up behind the Winchesters and grab them.

With them restrained, she reaches down to pull the hem of her dress up and remove the Colt from the thigh holster because she has no qualms about flashing some leg. "This is it, right?" she murmurs, studying the weapon.

The boys' eyes widen in shock.

"This is what it's all about…" the Queen of the Crossroads studies the legendary gun admiringly before aiming it.

She shoots the two demons and smiles salaciously at the shocked hunters. "We need to talk…_privately_," she purrs.

Hesitantly, the younger nods in agreement and she turns. "Follow me," she calls over her shoulder as she leads them to her study. If her hips have extra swing than usual, well, that's her prerogative and she smirks to herself as she feels their gazes drift down to her arse briefly.

So many reasons why she chose this form and this dress.

"What the hell is this?" Dean growls when they enter her study, lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the window and a few burning candles.

She snorts and looks at the gun in her hand as she perches on the edge of her desk. "Do you have _any _idea how deep I could have buried this thing?" The doors slam shut with a twitch of her hand, making the boys jump. "There's no reason you or anyone should know this even exists at all…except that I told you."

"_You _told us?" Sam sputters in disbelief.

"Rumors, innuendo, whispers…all sent out on the grapevine for you to hear."

Neither are phased. "Why? Why tell us anything?" Sam growls.

She pauses, raising the gun and pointing it at Dean. "I want you to take this thing to Lucifer and empty it into his intolerable, ugly, arrogant face."

The shorter hunter rolls his eyes. "Uh-huh. Okay. And why would _you_ want the devil dead?"

Well that's a complicated question if she's ever been asked one…but they don't need to know her whole history. "It's called…survival. But I forgot," she adds, setting the Colt down beside her on the desk and crossing her long legs, "You two, at best, are functional morons," she shrugs with a patronizing sneer.

"You're—functioning morons…" Dean tries and fails at a retort.

She giggles in condescension. "So clever, aren't you Dean? My, my. But Lucifer isn't a demon, remember? He's an angel—an angel famous for his hatred of humankind. To him, you're just…filthy bags of bloody pus…"

As she pours a glass of Craig, Dean and Sam exchange a glance, quickly followed by Dean jolting forward to snatch the Colt. Crowley tips her head and the brothers are sent flying back into two armchairs, away from her desk and the gun. "Ah, ah, boys. Manners, please.

"Anyways. If that's the way he feels about you…What can he feel about demons?"

She returns to her pose, sitting on the desk, legs on display, breasts and neck highlighted as she tilts her head back for a drink of the liquor.

"But he created you," Sam replies.

Snorting, she rolls her eyes. _As if. _"To him, demons are just…servants. Cannon fodder. If Lucifer manages to exterminate humankind…demons are next. So…help me." Crowley smiles. "Let's just go back to simpler, better times—back to when we could all just follow our natures. I'm in _sales_, damn it!" she exclaims and sighs.

"So," she purrs throatily, coming to stand before them, hip cocked. "What do you say? What if I give you the Colt and you go kill the devil?" She holds it out, smiling encouragingly.

"…oh…kay," Sam agrees warily, accepting the gun as they stand.

"Great," Crowley responds and this is all going so well, all according to plan.

The taller brother looks from the gun to her. "You wouldn't happen to know where the devil is, by chance, would you?"

She pauses to search through a planner on her desk. "Thursday," she reads. "Birdies tell me he has an appointment in Carthage, Missouri."

"Great, thanks" the giant says and points the gun to her forehead. It clicks softly.

The resultant expressions of shock and panic upon their faces are absolutely lovely—she gets the feeling she'll be seeing those looks quite often in the future. She takes a sip of Craig and nods. "Oh, yeah, right. You probably need some more ammunition…" the demon circles her desk to remove the box from a drawer.

"Uh, excuse me for asking, Crowley, but aren't you kind of signing your own death warrant?" Dean asks. "I mean, what happens to you if we go up against the devil and lose?"

She straightens. "One, he's going to wipe us all out anyways. Two—after you leave here, I go on an extended vacation to all points nowhere. And three—_how about you don't miss?!_" she shouts, eyes flashing in irritation. "Okay? _MORONS_!"

The Queen of the Crossroads tosses them the box of ammo and blinks out.

Time for some subtlety and hiding. Which are skills she excels at.

She doesn't tell the Winchesters the Colt won't kill Lucifer. She knows, just as she knows the gun wouldn't kill her. She knows they'll try and Lucifer wouldn't dare kill or touch them. Nor will Sam agree to serve as a vessel. So they'll be released…perhaps a bit worse for the wear, but…they'll find her afterwards. At some point. They'll want to find her and she'll have been underground—in hiding, in danger. She is putting her neck out there, but not pointlessly. It's a calculated risk. They'll be pissed off, for sure, but they will know she's on their side. After all, she's risking her neck to give them what they want, what they've been searching for. They will know she can be trusted marginally more than most demons.

This won't end without the Winchesters. They're the key to this apocalypse; with some pull on them, she might be able to help prevent it.

So she hopes.

* * *

The Colt doesn't work. Lucifer lives.

They know Crowley gave the gun to the Winchesters.

And Crowley is in deep shit (Again. As usual.) and so she goes in hiding, away in a small house in a Yiddish village. She has eyes and ears everywhere, despite this, and keeps an eye on the situation.

The chess match has begun, truly, now, and the pieces are at play on the board. Her entrance into the game has been announced, but they likely still think her a pawn.

It's always been that way. They've always underestimated her—angels, devils, and men alike.

That's their weakness, really. They disregard her. They dismiss the Winchesters. They write off a little angel who has begun to understand free will.

Michael, Lucifer, and the angels—they all think everyone is playing according to daddy's little plan, that the actors will go by the script. They don't understand that the script is being torn up; it's an improve show now.

Her brothers always underestimate others. _Always_. Every time. It will be their downfall.

If there's one thing Crowley can do, it's properly evaluate and understand others—allies and adversaries alike.

It's the one reason she's still alive today.

* * *

She gives them time to cool down before finding them. Apparently, she should have given them more time.

"…Bobby, we're in west Nevada. East is practically all there is," Dean says as she appears in their quaint little Impala.

"_Yeah, well, you better get drivin',_" the other man, Bobby, responds and they end the call. She makes a note to investigate the man.

There's a moment of frustrated silence, broken only by Dean's huff. Crowley grins.

"Say," she purrs from the backseat, startling both Winchesters, "I've got an idea."

The car swerves as Dean hits the brake, and Sam spins to put a knife through her. She watches from beside the car with an amused smirk, holding a smoking cigarette holder to her lips. (She's always enjoyed the elegant look of them, and she's feeling a bit nostalgic for the roarin' twenties at the moment—such interesting people, such loose morals, such a transitional era. What a time.)

"D'you get her?"

"She's gone!"

Knocking on the window with her knuckle, she relishes the look of shock on the morons' faces. "Fancy a fag and a chat?"

But the amusement fades as they stalk out of the car toward her, murder in their eyes. She backs away calmly, heels clicking on the pavement. "You're upset—we should discuss it. Not—here, but—"

"You wanna talk," Sam growls, knife still in hand, "After what you did to us?"

"What I—_what I did to you?!_" she exclaims, indignant. "_I gave you the Colt!_"

The moose, she realizes, is something to be feared, especially in his anger. "Yeah, and you knew it wouldn't work against the devil!"

"_Excuse me! _" she exclaims, defensive.

"Fess up. We lost _people _on that suicide run—_good_ people!" Sam shouts.

"Who you take on the ride is your own business!" she spits back, but calms herself. "Look, everything is still the same. We're all still in this together."

"Sure we are," Sam growls and lunges to knife her.

She's always enjoyed the disappearing trick too much. But it saves her from getting a knife in the gut anyways.

"Call your dog off, please!" she sighs and Dean pulls his brother back, thinking.

He is furiously calm. "Give me one good reason," he demands.

She straightens her coat and smirks. "I can give you Pestilence." Thank God for Gabriel and his insight earlier a few years ago.

"What do you know about Pestilence?"

"I know how to get him—that's got your interest, doesn't it?"

They bicker and it momentarily amuses her but only for a moment. "Shut up the _both _of you!" she shouts furiously. They quiet. "Look, I swear, I hoped the Colt would work," she vows. "It's an honest mistake! It's all part of the learning process—but nothing's changed. I still want the devil dead. _Well_, one thing has changed—now the devil _knows _I want him dead. Which, by the way, makes me the most fucked bugger in all of Creation!"

"Holy crap, we don't care," Dean rolls his eyes.

"They burned down my house!" she screams. "_They ate my tailor!_ Two months under the rocks, _like a bloody salamander_—every demon on hell and earth's got his eyes out for me! Thank you both, _so fucking much _for that.

"And yet, here I am—" she screams furiously, motioning around them with a flippant wave of her hand, "In the last place I should be, in the middle of the road, talking to Sam and Dean fucking Winchester under a bloody spot light!"

Frustrated beyond belief, she blows out said light, which does wonders for letting out her frustration, really.

She pauses, bringing the cigarette holder to her lips and breathing in a long drag, calming herself down, before she continues. "So come with me, please." Silence. She sighs. "Do you want the Horsemen rings or not?"

They are shocked and she rolls her eyes. "Yes, I know all about that." She doesn't add that Gabriel told her long ago. "So, shall we?"

* * *

"Now how do you know about the rings?" Dean demands, after she supposedly leads them to her hide-out location.

She smirks, removing her coat. Conjuring a comfortable armchair, she seats herself before the fireplace, legs crossed elegantly. Today, the Winchesters have the luck of seeing another of her more lascivious dresses—a wine red satin slip that hugs her curves. Her breasts nearly spill out of it and her legs are miles long below the hem. The stilettos help.

With the motion of crossing her legs, both men's eyes are drawn to her body and she smirks wider. She knows their weakness for a pretty woman and she isn't above using that. It's a rare source of amusement, anyways. Especially these days. She'll take her laughs where she can get them. "I'm flattered, boys, but my eyes are up here."

Both flinch and she gives a throaty chuckle. "To answer your question. Well. I've been keeping a close eye on you lot."

Sam shook his head. "We've got hex bags, we're hidden from demons."

"All but one," she points to herself smugly. "That night you broke into my house—our first date, shall we say—my assistant hid a tracking device in your car. A magical coin that easily trumps your bag of bones. Allows me to hear things too—and _my_, the things I've heard."

Crowley laughs lowly. "So you wanna cram the devil back in his box? Cunning scheme," she admits, not that it's theirs. "I want in."

Dean observes her warily, thinking. "You said you could get us Pestilence."

"Well, I don't know where Pestilence is, per say…but I know the demon that _does_. He's what you might call the Horsemen's stableboy. He handles their itineraries, sees to their needs. He's who you want. Believe me, he'll tell us where Sneezy's at."

"Well how do we get him to spill?" Dean asks, not buying it for a second. "Rip out his toenails?"

"No, no. Nuts on his pay grade don't crack. We bring him here, then I sell him."

"Sell him," Sam repeats, eyebrows raised skeptically.

"Please," she purrs lowly, leaning forward. The motion again draws their eyes downwards, to her breasts, though they aren't distracted. It simply drive her point home. "I've sold sin to saints for centuries. Think I can't close one little demon?"

Dean finally nods. "Alright, where's this demon of yours?"

She smirks.

* * *

"Moose is not coming," Crowley informs them, matter-of-fact.

"Why the hell not?" he growls.

"Oh, shut it, Gigantor," she snaps.

Sam sighs, aggravated. "Really? Why is it always my height you comment on, Crowley?"

Her eyebrows rise. "D'you _really_ want to know, Jolly Green Giant?"

"Sure, yeah," he shrugs.

She smirks and strides right up to him, pressing her curves against his body, heels giving her a lift, but she still had to crane to put her lips by his ear. "Because, _Samuel_…were circumstances different…I'd climb you like a tree." With that, she nips his jaw quickly and retreats away.

"What the fuck—" Sam exclaims, a hand over the spot where a mark will form in a short while, to her amusement.

She laughs. She can't help but tease them. It's too easy.

"Focusing," Dean comments sharply. "Why isn't he coming?"

Rolling her eyes, she explains impatiently, "Because I don't like you. I don't _trust _you. And…oh yes, _you keep trying to kill me!_" she shouts in his face and shrugs innocently. "Can you blame a girl?"

She has her reasons to hate them both, but she's still a little peeved about him trying to stab her twice.

"There's no damn way," he snaps. "This isn't gonna happen!"

She smiles patronizingly. "I'm not asking you, because you're not invited! I'm asking you." The demon looks to Dean. "So what's it gonna be?"

They share a glance and 'no' is written on their faces.

She sniffs. "Gentlemen, enjoy your last few sunsets," and turns, striding away, heels clicking. _Wait for it…_

_And…_

"Wait."

She stops.

"I'll go," Dean acquiesces.

* * *

"Door's open!" she calls to Dean, wiping her knife off, the only thing with any blood on it. Her dress is spotless.

He stares at the corpses of the security personnel.

"What?" she snaps impatiently.

"You killed them?" he asks in disbelief.

Crowley sighs. "Come on, we're on a tight schedule." As he glances back, she tuts, "Now you're squeamish? Please."

She shoves him in the elevator, makes her excuses, and sends him up for Brady.

Of course, she knows it won't work. But there's a reason she doesn't explain all her plans to a Winchester.

So when he inadvertently lures Brady downstairs, she pounces from behind him, throws a devil's trap bag over his head and promptly bashes his brains in. Blood soaks through the burlap and he collapses.

Dean stares up at her from the floor as he stumbles to his feet. "What the hell was that?"

"_That_ was perfect," Crowley replies smugly as she observes the unconscious demon sprawled upon the floor.

"Perfect?" the hunter spits, bloody, bruised, and furious. "He didn't want the rings—he wanted me!"

"Imagine the surprise on your face," she ponders idly. She can see it right now.

"What?!"

"Your ignorance and misinformation—I mean, it's completely authentic, you can't fake that!" she muses. "What? It went like clockwork!"

"Not for me, you son of a bitch!" he yells.

She shakes her head, chastising. "That's what you get, working with a demon."

Really. What _had _he expected?

* * *

"Where's Dean?" Sam demands when she enters.

Crowley doesn't answer his question. "Now, for the record, I'm against this. Negotiating a high level defection…it's very delicate business."

When she blocks his way to the door, he demands, "What're you talking about?"

"I begged Dean not to come back. He should be miles away—_from you_. He replied with a colorful rejoinder about my 'cornshoot'. So…go ahead. Go ruin our last, best hope."

He glares but passes her, to find the demon who he's thought his friend in college. "It's only the end of the world," she adds, feeling the beginning of a migraine.

Maybe she's allergic to Winchesters.

* * *

"Maybe you should be a little less worried about our necks, and be a little bit more worried about yours," Brady snaps at her. "…_No one_ will know greater torment than _you_. Lucifer is _never _going to let you die."

As if he was ever going to let her die in the first place, even before this.

She's never been that lucky.

* * *

Crowley returns to, surprisingly, find things more or less as she'd left them, though Brady seems a bit more bloody.

"God, the day I've had," she sighs in lieu of a greeting.

Both hunters jump.

Her dress is a bit torn, and there's specks of blood on her face and hands. Crowley's hair had been stacked neatly upon her head in an intricate knot, but it was falling down her neck now, almost post-coital in its messiness.

She stalks forward toward Brady. "Good news, my dear. You're going to live forever." The Queen of the Crossroads can't hold in the smug chuckle.

"What did you do?" their prisoner growls.

"Went over to a demons' nest, had a little massacre. Must be losing my touch though, let one of the little toads live. _Oops_," she smirks. "Also might have given said toad the impression you left your post last night because you and I are…wait for it…'lovers in league against Lucifer'." She smiles, showing all her teeth. "Hello, _darling_.

"So now, you get to be on the boss's eternal torment list—with little ol' me."

He shakes his head. "No, no no no no no…"

"Something else we have in common, aside from our torrid passion, of course: craving self-preservation. So, now. Why don't you tell me where Pestilence is?"

* * *

She's quite pleased for the chance to retrieve her hell hound and sic it on the other breasts when they attack their hiding place.

She's even more pleased when Brady gives them Pestilence's location.

Content with that, she leaves Brady in the Winchesters' capable hands, confident Brady won't last long. She doesn't have a problem with it. She has other business to see to.


End file.
